Wine  o  the  Winds 


'"I  wonder/  he  said,  'whether  you  would  sell  me  that.'" 


Wine  o*  the  Winds 

By 

Keene  ^Abbott 
V 


ILL  USTRAT  ED 


garden  £ity          3^ew  York 

Ttoubleday,  Tage  &  Company 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,   1920,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


TO  MY  COMRADE 


M13746 


CONTENTS 
PART  I— WILD 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     A  Daughter  of  the  Plains      ....  3 

II.     The  Girl  and  Her  Father 15 

III.  Youth 28 

IV.  Drowned  Affection 38 

PART  II— HOPES 

I.     Settlement 45 

II.     Holiday  Time 52 

III.  A  Glad  Surprise 61 

IV.  Doubtful  Joy 69 

PART  III— SHADOWS 

I.     Called  for  Consultation 79 

-II.     "What  Does  He  See  in  Her?"    ...  85 

III.  Summoned 93 

IV.  If! 99 

V.     The  Monster 107 

VI.     The  Third  Rider— Winifred?.     .     .     .  no 

VII.     Thanksgiving 114. 


Vll 


viii  CONTENTS 

PART  IV— DEATH 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Wedding  Guests 123 

II.     Ministerial  Delay 131 

III.  Grim  Gallantry      .......  136 

IV.  Lies! 142 

V.     Farewell 150 

PART  V— SONG 

I.     Night's  Symphony 161 

II.     Ghost  Song 1 66 

III.  The  Plains 178 

IV.  The  Void 183 

V.     Skulls .     .  185 

VI.     The  Sweet-lipped  Messenger       .      .      .  194 

PART  VI— NIGHT 

I.     The  Loves  of  Men 205 

II.     Indian  Country 211 

III.  Smoke 221 

IV.  Fire        225 

V.     Benediction 234 


CONTENTS  ix 
PART  VII— DAWN 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Joy 245 

II.     Revolt 252 

III.  Playful  Ferocity 260 

IV.  Beleaguered 269 

V.     "Friend" 279 

VI.     Achievement 287 

PART  VIII— SUNSET 

I.     "Jumped  Us" 293 

II.     Hurt 304 

III.  Fate's  Cockpit        . 308 

IV.  The  Kiss 317 

V.     The  Cup  of  Kindness 327 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

"CI  wonder/  he  said,  'whether  you  would  sell  me 
that ' "      .      .      .      .      «      .      .      .      .     Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"CA  sweet  woman/  she  was  murmuring.     'Beau 
tiful  and  kind '" 126 

"'You  are  not  going  to  shirk,  you   contemptible 

braggart,  you  are  going  to  do  your  full  share'"     214 

" c  Not  yet.     It's  mean  of  you  to  come  so  quick "      310 


PART  I 
WILD 


CHAPTER  I 

A  Daughter  of  the  Plains 


A  THE  stage-coach  moved  along  a  smooth 
stretch  of  prairie  trail,  the  easy  sway  and  dip 
of  the  vehicle,  in  addition  to  a  quiet  and 
soothing  patter  of  rain,  had  begun  to  exert  a  drowsy 
influence  even  upon  the  more  restless  of  the  two 
passengers.  Now  he  did  not  so  often  raise  a  dripping 
curtain,  nor  peer  out  as  if  he  would  like  to  get  away 
from  his  companion  by  plunging  off  yonder  into  that 
drenched  solitude  of  falling  night.  But  despite  the 
tranquillizing  mood  of  movement  and  weather,  he 
still  looked  from  time  to  time  for  anything  which 
might  show  itself  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

Once,  when  a  sombre  shape  came  briefly  into  view, 
he  scarce  identified  it  as  a  tent;  for  the  gray  shelter, 
sagging  with  the  wet,  seemed  like  some  morose 
phantom  lost  there  in  the  streaming  wilderness. 
An  inner  light,  feebly  blurring  through  the  canvas, 
disclosed  vaguely  a  group  of  words  daubed  with 
axle-grease  or  tar. 

POST-OFFICE 

LETTERS  TO  THE  STATES 
50  C 

After  reading  the  sign  on  the  tent,  the  restless 
traveller  turned  away,  muffled  himself  comfortably 


4  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

in  his  cloak,  and  was  gradually  being  lulled  to 
sleep,  when  the  wonted  undulations,  the  easy 
rocking  of  the  conveyance,  suddenly  left  off.  The 
coach  had  stopped.  In  the  darkness  the  talk  of  the 
two  men  mingled  with  the  drip  and  splash  and 
drumming. 

Wide,  wet  whispers  of  the  rain  kept  bringing  one  a 
sense  of  scope,  immensity,  of  vast  and  impenetrable 
distances. 

"She  wouldn't  stand  by  us,"  growled  a  husky 
voice.  "Not  for  very  long.  I  knowed  she  wouldn't." 

Another  man  said:  "Strained  too  much,  going  into 
the  ditch." 

The  gruffer  tones  asserted: 

"Snapped  on  us.  That's  what  she's  done.  I 
heard  her  snap." 

An  investigation  of  some  sort  must  be  in  progress; 
for  yellow  flecks  of  light — possibly  one  of  the  coach- 
lamps — kept  moving  about  in  the  rain.  The  sleep 
ing  passenger  awoke,  yawned,  shifted  his  position, 
and  settled  himself  for  more  slumber.  For  to  be 
here,  warmly  wrapped  and  safely  sheltered,  was  such 
a  snug  consideration! 

But  suddenly  a  leather  curtain  lifted,  and  a  power 
ful  yellow  eye  came  glaring  in.  It  was  the  con 
ductor  with  the  coach-lamp.  "Too  bad,"  he  was 
saying,  "  to  roust  you  little  birdies  out  of  your  nest. 
Too  bad.  A  shame.  Outrage!  What  do  you  say, 
Ash?  Ain't  it  an  outrage?" 

Grunts  came  out  of  the  darkness,  and  fragments  of 
speech.  "Clean  busted.  Knowed  she  wouldn't 
stand  by  us.  Told  the  blacksmith  she  wouldn't. 
But  he  ...  a  saphead!  A  Dutchman,  that's 


A  Daughter  of  the  Plains  5 

what  he  is,  or  Swede,  or  some  other  kind  of  for 
eigner!" 

"Hear  the  rumpus  he's  making!"  the  conductor 
exclaimed,  and  winked,  adding  in  a  confidential 
tone:  "He  knows,  Hugh  does,  that  they'll  be  sending 
us  some  kind  of  mud  wagon  to  take  the  place  of  this. 
For  we're  stalled;  we're  stuck  here.  An  axle  has 
busted  on  us.  Off  hind  wheel.  Going  into  the 
ditch,  back  yonder,  that's  what  mussed  us  up." 

The  "back  yonder"  he  mentioned  was  in  reality  a 
span  of  more  than  a  hundred  miles.  A  small  distance, 
of  course,  in  this  big  country.  Moreover,  the  incident 
referred  to  casually  as  a  trifle  had  almost  resulted  in 
a  calamitous  wreck.  It  came  about  through  the 
establishment  of  a  new  piece  of  stage  route  by  means 
of  which  a  Kansas  town,  on  the  old  military  road, 
had  been  left  with  very  infrequent  mail  service, 
and  holding  the  stage  company  responsible  for  the 
reprehensible  change,  the  citizens  of  the  town  had 
dug  a  pit-fall  in  retaliation.  Now,  so  it  developed, 
the  sprung  axle  had  come  to  grief;  and  the  coach  was 
to  be  abandoned  here  until  repairs  could  be  made,  or 
until  a  "mud  wagon,"  as  the  conductor  called  it, 
could  be  sent  to  pick  up  the  mail  pouches. 

"Most  likely,"  he  added,  "we  won't  pull  out  of 
this  till  sun-up  or  after.  But  up  the  trail  a  ways,  a 
mile  or  so,  is  Gilbert's  Ranch.  If  you  want  to,  you 
might  hang  out  there  for  the  night." 

Less  heavily  the  rain  seemed  to  bespatter  the 
leather  curtain  which  the  uneasy  traveller  held  up 
while  he  gazed  into  the  wet  void  of  the  prairie  night. 
A  feeble  yellow  gleam  shivered  in  the  distance,  while 
out  of  the  black  reaches  of  darkness  came  the  lowing 


6  Wine  o   the  Winds 

of  disquieted  cattle,  a  great  mass  of  them  sending 
forth  their  deep  and  long-drawn  protests  against 
glum  rumblings  of  ponderous  thunder. 

"Listen  to  that,"  said  the  one  peering  out.  A 
new  note  of  spirited  interest  had  come  into  his  voice, 
to  betoken  that  something  pleasanter  was  to  be 
heard  than  either  the  bovine  mooing  or  the  remote 
barkings  of  little  prairie  wolves.  "That,"  he  went 
on,  "must  be  the  singing  of  herdsmen  to  hush  the 
apprehensive  cattle."  Dark  spaces  of  the  prairie 
had  indeed  grown  vocal,  as  if  the  wet  gravity  of  the 
plains  had  begun  a  solemn  sort  of  hymning.  There 
were  two  voices  lifted  in  an  indefinable  chant,  a 
drift  of  slumberous  song  from  out  the  night's  im 
mensity.  The  deeper  utterance,  fuller  and  more 
resonant  than  the  other,  seemed  to  be  assuring  the 
cattle  that  they  need  not  be  afraid;  that  skies  would 
clear  and  courage  come  to  them  with  the  good  winds 
blowing. 

"Wine  o'  the  wind,  wine  o'  the  wind, 
Wine  o'  the  big  winds  blowing!" 

The  strangely  restless  individual  repeated  aloud 
that  recurrent  verse  of  the  drovers'  song;  and  now  he 
spoke  with  none  of  the  aching  lassitude  formerly 
his. 

"The  shower  seems  to  be  breaking  up.  What  do 
you  say:  shall  we  try  a  night's  lodging  at  the  ranch?" 

Even  though  the  sleepy  state  of  his  companion 
might  yield  little  spirit  for  venturing  into  the  night, 
the  other  considered  the  proposal  not  a  bad  idea;  so 
the  storm  having  abated  to  a  fine  and  dying  drizzle, 
the  two  men  set  forth,  side  by  side,  treading  the 


A  Daughter  of  the  Plains  7 

cushiony  buffalo  grass,  and  going  on  steadily  in  the 
direction  of  the  guiding  candle-beams. 

In  their  faces  both  travellers  must  have  felt  the 
chill  of  a  powdering  moisture,  yet  it  could  well  be 
that  one  of  them  shivered  not  so  much  with  the 
dampening  cold  as  with  a  spiritual  dampening. 

Said  the  man  who  shivered: 

"It's  farther  to  the  ranch  than  it  seemed." 

"Yes,"  the  other  absently  replied,  "farther  quite 
a  bit." 

It  seemed  to  both,  as  they  advanced  toward  the 
light  shining  from  afar,  that  the  roadside  public 
house,  one  of  those  ranches  scattered  at  remote  inter 
vals  all  along  the  Overland  Trail,  might  now  be 
holding  festival;  for  through  the  darkness  shrilled  the 
pronounced  rhythm  of  a  dance  tune  played  by  fiddle 
and  clarinet. 

The  travellers  were  right  in  supposing  the  place  to 
be  another  of  those  establishments  which  deal  in 
hay  and  grain  and  draught  animals,  and  thrive  upon 
what  had  come  to  be  known  as  "the  pilgrim  trade." 

As  a  means  of  relieving  the  monotony  of  a  long 
wagon  journey  wayfarers  of  the  plains  liked  to 
attend  ranch-house  dances;  settlers,  it  appeared,  were 
likewise  drawn  thither  from  long  distances:  thirty, 
forty,  or  sixty  miles.  To-night,  at  this  particular 
ranch,  the  dance-room  floor  continuously  throbbed, 
the  bar  kept  busy,  and  several  groups  of  card-players 
amused  themselves. 

One  man,  a  grizzled  and  stubby  individual  in  jacket 
and  breeches  of  buckskin,  amused  the  newcomers  by 
trying  to  get  up  an  argument  with  them  about  the 
best  kind  of  bait  to  use  in  trapping  beaver.  He  also 


8  Wine  o   the  Winds 

wanted  to  discuss  the  city  of  St.  Louis.  He,  had 
been  there,  he  knew  all  about  it — a  heartless  place! 
Lots  of  people;  all  the  canyons /#//  of  people;  every 
minute,  all  day  long,  people  going  by.  And  nobody 
asking  you  to  wet  up! 

He  carried  this  complaint  to  a  girl  in  an  orange- 
coloured  shawl.  The  stage  passengers  watched  him 
telling  her  solemnly  about  the  meanness  of  St.  Louis. 
And  she  smiled  a  little,  but  gave  most  of  her  atten 
tion  to  a  game  of  euchre.  One  of  the  wall-light 
clusters,  three  candles  on  a  bracket,  with  a  tin- 
plate  reflector  behind  the  flames,  vividly  brightened 
her  long-fringed  Spanish  shawl,  while  her  white 
fingers  busied  themselves  languidly  with  a  bit  of  thin 
corn-husk  filled  with  tobacco.  When  the  rolling  of 
her  cigarette  had  been  finished,  she  asked  with  an 
indolent  drawl: 

"Why  don't  somebody  slip  the  lady  a  match?" 

The  card-players  looked  up.  "Well,  now,"  the 
dealer  exclaimed,  and  stopped  shuffling  the  deck  in 
his  heavy,  rope-calloused  hands,  "if  it  ain't  the  kid, 
her  own  self!" 

Another  said: 

"It  don't  look  reasonable,  Winnie;  it  sure  don't: 
a  trail  drifter  like  you  getting  up  such  a  come-on  kind 
of  a  look!  As  smart,  by  George,  as  any  senorita  that 
ever  flirted  a  fan." 

Jocular  compliments  of  these  card-players  were 
tinctured  with  something  comradely,  a  sort  of  indul 
gent,  big-brother  tone.  And  despite  the  whiteness 
of  the  girl's  well-shaped  hands,  the  smooth  ruddiness 
of  her  face  indicated  that  she  must  have  been  ex 
posed  to  the  same  weathering,  the  same  fierce  sun- 


A  Daughter  of  the  Plains  9 

shine  and  sultry  winds  that  had  given  such  a  leathery, 
nut-brown  colour  to  the  men. 

"Hang  around,"  a  stocky  individual  observed, 
while  sorting  his  cards.  "Just  you  wait,  now,  till  I 
play  this  hand  out,  and  I'll  swing  you  a  whirl." 

It  was  an  invitation  to  dance;  for  the  scrape  of 
riddles  and  the  wheeze  of  a  clarinet  had  again  started 
up.  One  felt  the  booted  jar  of  feet;  candle  flames 
quivered,  and  intermittently  the  accented  beat  of  the 
tune  was  cut  into  by  a  nasal  chant  calling  the  changes 
of  a  quadrille. 

"Do  what?"  the  girl  inquired,  as  her  rounded  chin 
with  its  warm  hue  of  copper  bronze  went  tilting  up. 
"Wait,  Stump  Lancaster?  For  you?  Yes,  I  will! 
Be  patient  about  it  as  a  coon  at  a  coyote  camp- 
meeting." 

He  was  given  to  understand,  this  Stump  Lancaster, 
that  when  she  hobbled  herself,  and  hung  around 
waiting  for  somebody,  it  would  not  be  for  a  scrub 
horse-wrangler  who  knows  a  heap  sight  more,  maybe, 
about  nursing  lambs  than  he  does  about  tending 
saddle-stock. 

The  card-players  laughed,  their  game  proceeded, 
money  clinked  on  the  table,  and  the  girl  in  the 
orange  shawl  went  loitering  away.  Hers  was  the 
bored  indolence  of  one  who  might  be  sorry  she  had 
come  here  for  recreation. 

It  could  not  have  been  anything  new  to  her,  this 
sort  of  place;  for  she  seemed  quite  indifferent  to  what 
was  going  on,  and  scarcely  gave  a  glance  toward  the 
bar,  a  plank  across  two  barrels,  where  much  drinking 
had  been  in  progress. 

As  yet  there  had  been  little  disorder.     Members  of 


io  Wine  o    the  Winds 

the  two  teamster  castes,  "mule-skinners"  and 
"bull-whackers"  had  once,  it  is  true,  started  a  row, 
but  had  so  far  accommodated  the  ranch-keeper  as  to 
take  their  quarrel  outside  for  violent  settlement. 

The  red-faced  proprietor  declared  emphatically 
that  he  wasn't  going  to  have  any  rumpus  here.  He 
had  even  worked  himself  into  such  excitement  over  it 
that  he  did  not  know  what  was  meant  when  the  girl 
with  the  orange  shawl  asked  him  languidly  for  a 
match. 

"Allow  me,"  said  a  youthful  by-stander  in  a 
travelling  cloak,  the  restless  man  from  the  stage-coach, 
as  he  proffered  a  light  which  she  used  and  negligently 
dropped. 

Replacing  his  hat  upon  his  head,  after  she  went 
idling  away,  without  a  word  of  thanks,  the  young 
man  imagined  that  she  had  scarcely  noticed  him. 
And  that  was  well;  for  the  desire  was  his  to  do  all  the 
noticing  himself.  Not  that  the  most  striking  ele 
ments  of  the  girl's  appearance  had  attracted  him, 
neither  the  high,  silver-mounted  comb  holding 
in  place  the  thick-clustering  mass  of  her  black-blue 
hair,  nor  yet  the  singularity  of  contrast  made  by  the 
sun-embrowned  ruddiness  of  her  cheeks  with  the 
sinuous  grace  of  the  white  fingers  holding  the  ciga 
rette.  No,  it  must  be  something  else  which  es 
pecially  drew  his  interest. 

When  she  had  joined  a  group  of  spectators  in  front 
of  a  poker  dealer,  it  seemed  that  here  the  players 
were  all  strangers  to  her,  for  she  spoke  to  no  one  and 
appeared  quite  oblivious  of  their  too-candid  atten 
tion.  That  the  boldness  of  those  appraising  eyes 
affected  the  young  man  very  unpleasantly  could  be 


A  Daughter  of  the  Plains  1 1 

seen  by  the  way  he  scowled  and  withdrew,  going  off 
with  back-stiffening  disapproval. 

At  the  open  door,  now  framing  an  oblong  slice  of 
storm-blackness,  he  stood  motionless,  gazing  at  the 
prairie.  Rain  no  longer  fell;  but  sometimes,  while  he 
remained  thus,  the  land  flickered  green  with  an 
amazing  flatness;  for  vast  spaces  of  the  plains,  even 
to  the  horizon,  were  lit  palely  or  vividly  by  recurrent 
lightning  flashes. 

Breathing  the  thundery  air  and  peering  into  the 
dark  void,  he  did  not  move  nor  notice  the  blue  eddies 
of  tobacco  smoke  drifting  past  him  in  the  draught. 
But  by  and  by  he  gave  a  start  of  active  surprise  when 
he  heard  the  girl  with  the  orange  shawl  languidly 
asking: 

"Maybe  you've  another  match  that's  not  work 
ing." 

Quite  unaware  that  she  might  have  come  to  see 
him  do  what  he  had  done  before,  he  once  more  re 
moved  his  hat  and  waited  until  the  sulphur  fumes 
of  the  light  should  die  away.  Only  then,  with  the 
match  burning  into  a  clear  flame  between  his  cupped 
hands,  did  he  permit  it  to  tip  the  girl's  cigarette  with 
a  fresh  glow. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  intently  looking  at  her, 
"whether  you  would  sell  me  that?" 

"Sell?  You  mean  this?"  Wonderingly  she  held 
up  the  cigarette,  blew  the  ash  from  its  red  spark,  and 
observed  with  a  puzzled  look:  "What  a  notion!" 
Later  she  listlessly  drawled:  "Yellow  money  might 
buy  it,  if  you  have  no  diamonds  on  you.  I  don't 
know  what  price  I  ought  to  ask,  not  being  used  to  the 
cigarette  trade;  but  I  reckon  a  quart  or  two  of  nice, 


12  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

first-class  diamonds,  and  a  few  gold  mines,  and  some 
other  junk  of  that  kind,  would  be  about  right  for 
one  of  my  cigarettes." 

She  paused,  doubtless  expecting  from  him  some 
sort  of  responsive  chaff,  but  he  only  went  on  looking 
at  her  with  meditative  aloofness. 

Rather  timorously,  meanwhile,  he  had  put  out  his 
hand.  "Please,"  he  insisted. 

"You  really  want  it?  Well,  what  for?  To 
smoke?" 

She  saw  from  his  expression  it  was  not  for  that. 
What,  then,  if  he  should  want  it  for  a  keepsake,  a 
token,  a  something  to^remind  him  of  lips  richly  red 
and  lush  with  the  sap  of  youth.  Only  to  see  whether 
he  had  in  mind  some  absurd  idea  such  as  this,  the 
girl  surrendered  the  cigarette. 

And  was  not  well  pleased.  No,  not  at  all  pleased. 
For  he  held  it  absently  and  negligently,  ready  at  any 
moment  to  drop  the  thing. 

How  different  his  conduct  from  that  of  another 
young  man,  a  Texas  ranger  she  had  known !  Months 
ago,  at  a  dance,  it  was  he  who  had  found  something 
of  hers — something  which,  in  truth,  she  may  have 
intended  him  to  find.  He  had  picked  up  a  broken 
garter,  one  prettily  beribboned  with  lilac-coloured 
silk.  Afterward  he  had  gloated  over  his  find,  he  had 
bragged  about  it,  he  had  even  made  an  indelicate 
exhibit  of  it  among  men. 

Frankly  and  naively  the  girl  told  this  stranger  all 
about  the  incident.  Then  she  added:  "He  had  to 
give  it  back.  Had  to,  or  get  hurt."  The  same  lazy 
drawl  was  in  her  voice,  but  the  indolence  had  gone 
out  of  her  narrowed  eyes.  Now  they  stood  darkly 


A  Daughter  of  the  Plains  13 

wide,  angry,  and  magnificent.  "He  gave  it  back/* 
she  said. 

"Really!"  was  the  only  comment  of  her  rather  in 
attentive  listener.  Meanwhile  he  went  on  regarding 
her  with  his  odd  remoteness  of  expression,  a  most 
singular  look  as  of  strained  fatigue,  or  heart-weari 
ness,  or  youth  gone  stale. 

The  girl,  however,  continued  talking.  For  what 
about  the  cigarette  she  had  given  him?  Why  had 
he  offered  to  buy  it?  What  did  he  mean  to  do  with 
it?  Presently  she  began  to  speak  of  different  modes 
of  smoking.  The  Indians,  she  said,  mix  crushed 
sumach  leaves  with  their  tobacco,  or  the  inner  bark  of 
the  red  willow. 

"Once,"  she  went  on,  "I  messed  up  Pappy's 
pipe-tobacco  with  dry  sweet  grass.  And  what  he 
said  to  me,  when  he  found  it  out,  was  something 
decorative.  Such  fuss  and  fuming!  My  stars!" 

"Yes?"  the  young  man  questioned,  with  abstrac 
tion  still  sounding  in  his  voice.  And  although  she 
might  be  distinctly  annoyed  by  his  unapproachable 
remoteness,  the  girl  would  have  been  far  less  clever 
than  she  was  if  she  had  missed  a  certain  doting  wist- 
fulness  in  his  eyes.  His  attention,  all  this  while, 
had  apparently  been  held  by  the  clear-cut  and  deli 
cate  curves  of  her  mouth — a  mouth  rich  in  colour 
and  vivid  as  a  Christmas  berry  among  holly  leaves. 

Only  they  were  by  no  means  placid  lips.  They 
pouted,  they  expressed  almost  as  much  dissatisfac 
tion  with  him  as  when  she  abruptly  exclaimed: 

"Shucks!  You  hardly  listen.  I  talk  and  talk,  and 
you  say  'Yes'  or  'Really/  Short  answers — that's 
the  best  I  get!" 


14  Wine  oJ  the  Winds 

This,  to  be  sure,  brought  the  young  man  to  earth. 
She  quite  astonished  him.  A  sudden  twinge  passed 
over  his  face,  to  be  followed  instantly  by  an  implor 
ing  earnestness: 

"No  offence  was  intended."  He  humbly  bowed  in 
his  apology.  "Certainly  not.  You  must  see  I 
would  be  sorry  to  offend  you." 

With  brusqueness  he  turned  away,  quite  unheedful 
that  she  was  saying: 

"Don't  go.  Wait.  It's  mean,  so  it  is;  it's  mean 
to  catch  a  body  up  like  that." 

But  he  was  gone.  He  strode  hastily  forth  into  the 
night.  Once,  to  be  sure,  she  saw  his  hurrying  figure 
revealed  by  the  lightning's  bluish  glare,  but  straight 
way  he  vanished,  being  effaced  utterly  by  the  black 
nothingness  of  prairie  darkness.  Her  cigarette, 
meanwhile,  lay  upon  the  floor,  flattened,  trod  upon, 
carelessly  crushed  by  the  heel  of  his  boot. 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Girl  and  Her  Father 

THE  girl  continued  gazing  out  into  the  moist 
night  while  the  young  man  steadily  withdrew, 
now  appearing  and  now  disappearing.  She 
watched  him  approach  a  long  mound  resembling  part 
of  a  fort's  earthworks;  but  since  the  era  of  barbed 
wire  had  not  yet  come  to  the  West  the  extended 
barrier  could  be  only  the  sod-built  fence  of  a  stock- 
corral.  It  seemed  for  a  time  as  if  the  erratic  wan 
derer  must  go  blundering  against  the  low  wall,  but 
when  a  flickering  serpent  tongue  of  flame  next  jag- 
gedly  cracked  the  night,  she  could  see  that  he  had 
stopped  short. 

Who  could  he  be,  that  attractive  young  man? 
And  why  this  eccentricity  of  behaviour?  The  girl 
at  once  began  to  look  about  for  his  companion,  the 
taller  man,  whose  hat  and  travelling  cloak  had 
glistened  with  moisture  when  he  came  in,  exactly  as 
the  hat  and  cloak  of  his  associate  had  been  misted 
over.  Noting  where  he  stood,  she  went  over  to  him 
with  the  confiding  directness  of  a  child,  an  unabashed 
and  rather  saucy  child,  whom  everybody  likes. 

"You  know  him,"  she  said.  "You  came  in  with 
him.  I  mean  the  one  I  was  talking  with  just  now." 

He  returned  her  smile,  being  pleased  with  her  good 
looks  and  especially  with  her  fine  teeth  which  seemed 


1 6  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

all  the  whiter  in  contrast  with  the  ruddy  warmth  of 
her  tanned  face. 

"Know  him?  A  little.  As  well  as  one  may  be 
expected  to  know  his  own  brother." 

"What,  brothers?    And  your  name?" 

"North.     I  am  Victor  North." 

"Bound  for  Cherry  Creek?" 

"No,  for  California." 

"But  why  not  try  your  luck  in  the  Pike's  Peak 
country?  There's  gold,  they  say,  in  Cherry  Creek — 
heaps  and  heaps.  Our  outfit,"  she  added,  "is 
heading  for  the  new  town;  Denver,  they  call  it. 
We're  all  the  way  from  Palo  Pinto  County.  Started 
with  the  grass,  and  been  drifting  our  stock,  grazing 
them  all  the  way.  One  of  the  first  herds,  Pappy  says, 
ever  to  come  up  into  this  country;  and  we've  made  it, 
he  says,  in  good  shape.  Some  storm-loss  and 
stampedes,  but  no  Indian  trouble  worth  mentioning. 
Satisfied  the  Comanches  with  some  critters,  and 
later  the  Kiowas  had  to  have  a  few.  But  it  was  all 
right.  They  only  took  the  poor  stuff,  the  lame 
stragglers." 

Victor  supposed  it  must  be  a  big  drive.  "  I  judged 
so,"  he  observed,  "by  the  enormous  lowing  we  heard 
back  yonder  two  or  three  miles,  where  the  stage  had  a 
breakdown." 

"A  thousand  head  in  that  bunch,"  she  told  him, 
"and  another  outfit  following.  In  a  few  weeks, 
now,  Pappy  hopes  to  have  them  ranging  on  Cherry 
Creek." 

All  this  had  been  told,  apparently,  by  way  of  draw 
ing  information  from  North  about  himself  and  his 
brother;  but  since  he  had  revealed  no  inclination  to 


The  Girl  and  Her  Father  17 

"loosen  up,"  as  Westerners  call  it,  the  girl  presently 
said: 

"Maybe  you're  in  business  together,  you  two?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "my  brother  happens  to  be  a 
professional  man,  a  doctor,  while  I " 

"A  doctor  ?  So  ?  Well,  he  has  kind  eyes.  And," 
she  hastily  added,  in  order  that  this  young  man  might 
not  feel  left  out,  "you  have,  too!" 

Her  ingenuousness  made  him  smile,  and  he  smiled 
still  more  when  she  added: 

"You  know  how  to  act.  Not  a  bit  stand-offish; 

but  he "  Her  red  lips  pursed  themselves  into  a 

spoiled-child  kind  of  pouting.  "  I  want  to  be  friends 
with  him,"  she  candidly  announced.  "I  can't  stand 
it,  hardly,  if  everybody  isn't  friends  with  me.  So, 
when  he  comes  back,  just  you  tell  him  I'm  sorry  for 
making  him  cross,  and  I  want  to  make  it  right. 
You  can  tell  him  that.  Tell  him  I'll  dance  with  him. 
Will  you  tell  him?  Please  do.  For  see,"  she  went 
on,  slowly  turning  herself  about,  "I've  dressed  up  for 
to-night."  Fan-wise,  with  a  pretty  grace,  she 
spread  her  expansive,  rose-coloured  skirt,  and 
curtseyed  to  him  as  in  the  minuet.  "Do  you  like 
it?"  she  asked.  "Is  it  pretty?  My  trunk's  in  the 
chuck-wagon.  The  boys  smuggled  it  in.  Takes 
up  too  much  room;  a  bother  and  a  nuisance,  but  they 
don't  care.  They  like  me." 

"Very  pretty,"  Victor  murmured. 

Her  snowy  wrists  had  come  out  from  under  the 
shawl's  silk  fringe.  "My  hands  are  not  so  bad.  I 
try  to  keep  them  nice.  Wear  gloves,  you  know.  I 
like  nice  hands.  Don't  you?" 

He  did  like  them;  especially  hers,  he  said.     "Yes, 


1 8  Wine  o    the  Winds 

they'll  do,"  she  conceded.  And  while  he  went  on 
gazing  at  her  with  amused  good  nature,  he  suddenly 
caused  her  to  look  up  in  wonder. 

"Oh!"  he  had  exclaimed,  and  she  asked  at  once: 

"  What's /&tf  for?" 

"Astonishing!  It's  the  resemblance.  I  never  saw 
such  a  striking  likeness.  You  are  really  enough  like 
someone  we  know  to  be  of  the  same  family." 

"Ami?" 

"Reallvyou  are." 

"It's  tne  mouth,"  said  the  girl. 

:0Pon  my  word,  I  do  believe  it  is." 

"Yes,"  she  affirmed,  "it's  that.  He  kept  look 
ing  at  my  mouth.  And  didn't  want  to  see  me 
smoking.  For  she,  I  reckon,  doesn't  smoke.  Does 
she?" 

"She?" 

"I'm  eighteen.  Is  she  older?  Does  she  dance 
well?  Has  she  a  pretty  foot?" 

One  of  her  own,  in  a  rosy-hued  stocking,  neatly 
slippered,  showed  itself  from  under  a  lifted  flounce. 
Truly  a  pretty  foot,  with  orange  ribbons  crossed  on 
the  arch  and  enspanning  the  fluent  curves  of  the 
well-modelled  ankle. 

" There ! "  she  exclaimed.  "And  what  about  eyes ? 
Mother  always  used  to  say  that  my  eyes  were  nicer 

than  my  mouth,  but Has  she  fine  eyes?  What 

colour?  Is  she  much  educated?" 

This  naive  eagerness  and  the  elemental  quality  of  it 
might  have  been  far  more  entertaining  to  the  young 
man  if  it  had  not  made  him  so  uncomfortable.  Her 
thoughts  were  not  less  transparent  than  the  openness 
of  the  prairies  to  which  she  belonged.  And  all  her 


The  Girl  and  Her  Father  19 

engaging  candour  made  one  think  of  untamed  and 
untamable  witcheries  of  nature  which  beguile  us 
with  serenity,  only  to  betray  us  with  violence. 

So  uneasy  the  girl  had  made  North  feel  with  the 
assault  of  her  child-like  questionings  that  he  asked 
abruptly,  by  way  of  evasion : 

"How  have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

"Oh,  that!"  she  said,  and  instantly  raised  the 
bright-hued  shawl  to  scarf  up  a  long,  horizontal 
abrasion  of  her  sun-browned  throat.  "The  boys — 
deuce  take  'em ! — will  always  be  swinging  a  loop  over 
me,  if  I  don't  watch  out.  Shag  Mills  pretty  near 
roped  me  off  my  horse." 

"He — what?  Lassoed  you,  and  almost  dragged 
you  from  the  saddle!  What  a  ruffian!" 

Observing  the  twinge  of  revulsion  in  his  face,  the 
girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed. 

"Why,  no  harm  meant!"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  a 
game  we  have.  Rough,  though.  I  don't  like  it 
when  they  get  too  rough." 

"Tender  treatment!"  he  ironically  observed. 
"And  if  you  were  to  get  badly  hurt?" 

"I  am  hurt,"  she  declared.  "For  I  just  tell  you 
what:  it's  a  heap  sorrier  to  have  folks  act  unfriendly 
than  it  is  to  get  your  neck  rope-burnt.  But  when  he 
comes  back,  I'm  going  to  dance  with  him,  your 
brother." 

"Not  with  him,  I'm  afraid."  Victor  smiled  at  her 
assurance. 

"  Why  won't  I  ? "     There  was  challenge  in  her  eyes. 

"Because — well,  it's  because  he  happens  to  be 
feeling  rather  too  old  to  dance." 

"Don't   say  that!"   she  protested.     "Don't   tell 


20  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

lies.  Old?  Why,  he  has  no  gray  hairs  at  his  temples, 
the  same  as  you." 

"No,  to  be  sure.  But  what,  now,  if  he  should  feel 
much  older  than  I?" 

The  girl  stood  stilL  She  stood  looking  intently 
into  his  eyes,  and  then  he  heard  an  impatient  tap 
ping  of  her  slippered  foot,  while  she  took  a  deep 
breath,  obdurately  insisting: 

"He  shall  dance  with  me." 

She  started  away,  lightly,  her  feet  in  time  to  the 
blatant  rhythm  of  a  tune  which  caused  even  the 
candle  flames  to  throb  as  if  they  might  be  saluting 
each  other  in  the  Virginia  reel.  While  withdrawing 
she  gave  him  a  smile  over  her  shoulder,  and  once 
paused,  turned  half  about,  and  dropped  him  a  curt 
sey. 

After  the  girl  in  the  orange  shawl  had  passed 
through  changing  groups  of  people  to  the  back  part 
of  the  room,  he  continued  looking  in  the  direction 
she  had  gone.  Nor  did  he  withdraw  his  gaze  until 
he  heard  a  deep  voice  at  his  elbow  inquiring  if  he  were 
Doctor  North.  It  was  a  gun-belted  stranger,  past 
middle-age,  sturdy  and  erect,  with  squinted  eyes, 
the  eyes  of  the  plainsman  long  accustomed  to  shield 
themselves  from  dust  and  wind  and  the  wounding 
glare  of  the  sun. 

"No,"  the  young  man  replied,  "I'm  not  the 
doctor;  I'm  his  brother." 

North  felt  much  attracted  by  the  drawling  cordial 
ity  of  the  stranger's  resonant  voice.  Not  by  that 
alone,  but  by  something — he  knew  not  what — some 
thing  droll,  vexed,  and  helpless  in  the  stern  expression 
on  the  swarthy  face.  On  either  side  of  the  mouth 


The  Girl  and  Her  Father  21 

the  heavy  roll  of  moustache  extended  itself  into  a 
brushy  whisker  growth,  with  a  frayed  tuft  to  right 
and  left  of  the  resolute  chin. 

"No  place  for  a  girl,"  he  blurted  out.  "Hell,  no! 

If  her  dear  mother  were  living But  what's  to  be 

done  when  a  man  has  a  daughter  like  that?  Keep 
her  in  a  convent  school?  Send  her  East  to  her  aunt? 
Phew!" 

His  massive  shoulders  moved,  but  whether  in  a 
shrug  of  dissatisfaction  or  of  resignation  could  not  be 
determined.  He  went  on,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb 
toward  a  corner  table,  at  the  rear  of  the  room : 

"Look  at  her:  playing  my  poker  hand.  Winning, 
too,  I'll  bet  a  hat!" 

Parental  pride  struggled  with  exasperation.  "I 
just  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  added.  "  I'm  no  kind  of  a 
father.  She  gets  around  me.  By  thunder,  she  does 
that  to  me!"  The  pantomime  of  twisting  something 
about  his  finger  indicated  what  he  meant,  and  then 
his  brown  hands  gave  a  toss  of  comic  surrender. 
"I  even  told  her  (here  his  elbow  gave  North  a 
nudge  to  emphasize  the  point),  told  her  I  wouldn't 
come  over  here  to  you,  and  give  myself  a  soldier's 
introduction.  But,  all  the  same,  here  I  am."  Offer 
ing  a  long,  black  cigar,  he  said:  "Have  one  of  these 
centre-fires.  I  reckon  it  will  smoke.  I  worked 
through  one  of  them,  but  didn't  have  to  strain  hard  to 
control  my  enthusiasm.  Seems  to  be  some  kind  of 
cousin  to  the  forty-rod  whiskey  they're  dishing  up 
in  tin  cups  over  yonder.  Near  as  I  can  figure  it, 
they've  mixed  in  a  peck  of  red  pepper  to  give  some 
jump  and  spirit  to  the  rain-water  that's  leaked  into 
the  barrel.  Seems  as  if  a  gallon  or  so  of  corn  juice 


22  Wine  o    the  Winds 

ought  to  last  a  long  while,  the  way  it  gets  doctored 
and  trimmed  up  and  decora  ted. " 

"The  advantage  one  has,"  North  replied,  "in  being 
not  much  of  a  drinker  is  the  immunity  he  enjoys 
against  such  dreadful  concoctions." 

"Take  it  all  around/'  the  plainsman  went  on,  "I 
can  stand  Taos,  or  white  mule,  or  the  very  worst  the 
Indian  traders  have.  Liquor  can't  stump  me,  nor 
handling  a  cow  outfit.  Have  fetched  up,  first  and 
last,  out  of  some  tolerable  tight  places.  Between 
Cache  Creek  and  the  Witchita  hills,  for  instance,  it 
looked  as  if  a  buffalo  stampede  might  carry  off  all  my 
stock.  We  split  the  buffalo  herd  by  shooting  into  it. 
Knew  what  was  up  by  the  great  dust  moving  toward 
us.  So  we  rode  ahead,  broke  the  stampede,  and 
saved  a  bobble.  The  boys  held  our  cattle.  Yes; 
could  manage  that  all  right.  But — this  daughter 
of  mine !  Por  Dios  !  " 

He  chuckled.  He  seemed  to  think  it  altogether 
absurd  that  his  own  flesh  and  blood  should  be  so  alto 
gether  unmanageable. 

"Here,"  North  announced,  "is  my  brother  now,  if 
you  would  like  to  speak  with  him." 

The  man  referred  to  had  just  come  in  out  of  the 
darkness;  and  blinking  in  the  light,  he  kept  glancing 
about  as  if  in  search  of  someone,  and  when  presented 
to  Hugh  Barton,  father  of  the  oddly  attractive  girl, 
young  Doctor  North  seemed  scarcely  to  comprehend 
the  introduction. 

"Noisy  place,  this,"  the  cattleman  observed. 
"Suppose  we  get  away  from  here — outside,  perhaps, 
where  my  chin-music  may  have  some  chance." 

The  three  men  moved  out,  accordingly,  into  the 


The  Girl  and  Her  Father  23 

night,  arriving  by  and  by  at  the  low  sod  wall  of  the 
corral.  Here  they  chatted  together,  sometimes 
resting  their  arms  on  the  fence,  despite  its  growth  of 
wet  grass  and  weeds.  Meanwhile  the  saddle  stock 
of  the  enclosure  came  straying  nearer  and  nearer, 
as  horses  will,  through  the  impulse  of  curiosity. 

"The  white-faced  one,"  the  drover  observed,  al 
though  nothing  more  than  a  gray  streak  showed 
among  the  dark  mass  of  animals,  "he's  Winnie's 
favourite.  Wicked,  too.  Plenty  of  devil  in  him." 
As  he  spoke  the  man  knocked  his  feet  together  in  a 
manner  causing  his  Mexican  spurs  to  give  forth  a 
peevish  jingle.  He  was  muttering,  or  maybe  growl 
ing  would  be  the  better  word,  that  one  of  these  days 
the  girl  would  surely  get  her  back  broken,  or  her  neck. 
He  even  called  it  her  fool  neck. 

Then  he  said: 

"  My  own  fault,  though — partly.  I  set  the  lads  on 
to  hector  and  raise  Ned  with  her,  and  get  her  soured 
on  this  kind  of  life.  Didn't  want  her  trailing  cattle 
with  me.  No  place  for  a  girl.  Hell,  no!  Is  it?" 

The  Norths  thought  it  was  not;  they  could  con 
ceive,  they  said,  of  something  far  more  desirable  for  a 
young  lady  than  the  hardships  of  the  plains. 

"Once,"  the  girl's  father  went  on,  "I  had  to  come 
down  hard.  Discipline,  you  understand.  Pretty 
rough  on  a  man,  I  want  to  tell  you,  to  be  tying  up  his 
daughter  to  a  wagon-wheel.  I  did  that.  Didn't 
care  the  blue  end  of  a  finger-nail  what  the  others 
thought  of  it.  I  did  that.  She  stayed  there,  too — 
half  the  night." 

He  was  obviously  one  of  those  Texans  whose 
speech  had  acquired  the  colloquial  phrases  and  the 


24  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

decorative  profanity  current  among  the  vaqueros  of 
Mexico. 

"Didn't  set  very  well  with  the  outfit,"  he  went  on. 
"  Cuerpo  de  Dios  !  I  should  say  not !  Men  got  ugly 
about  it;  I  even  looked  for  something  nasty.  For 
the  boys — somehow — all  mellow  about  her,  every 
lad  of  them." 

Suddenly  his  voice  broke  into  merriment.  Ro 
bustly  he  laughed,  robustly,  with  the  doting  joy  of 
parenthood. 

"Scolded  them,"  he  asserted,  "that's  what  Winnie 
did!  Yes,  lit  into  them  right  smart.  Made  'em 
understand  how,  having  disobeyed  her  father,  she 
deserved  what  she  was  getting.  Did,  too;  she 
deserved  that,  or  worse." 

Doctor  North  ventured  the  opinion  that  it  must 
have  been  some  very  serious  form  of  disobedience  to 
merit  such  punishment. 

"Serious?  It  was,"  the  father  declared.  "Began 
with  the  trouble  we  had  in  crossing  the  Cimarron. 
River  was  up,  banked  full,  a  powerful  current,  and 
the  herd  refusing  to  take  the  water.  Worked  them 
in,  of  course — a  dozen  times,  maybe.  And  the  devil 
to  pay  when  we  did!  Critters  got  to  milling,  and 
jamming,  and  miring  down.  Such  fuss  and  bellow 
ing!  Horns  clacking  like  a  thousand  games  of 
billiards;  bulls  roaring;  cows  and  dogies  and  steers  in 
a  row  of  mooing.  Mad,  too,  from  being  worked  so 
much.  The  north  bank  happened  to  be  fairly  steep, 
and  the  leaders  wouldn't  try  hard  enough  to  make  the 
riffle.  They'd  fall  back,  plunge,  flounder,  get  on  the 
prod,  send  the  whole  herd  ramming  and  jamming 
down  stream.  Looked  like  a  heavy  loss.  Finally  a 


The  Girl  and  Her  Father  25 

Mexican  risked  himself,  going  in  with  his  horse. 
And  went  under !  His  lifeless  body  caught  on  a  snag 
two  miles  below.  After  such  an  accident  you  may 

know  a  man  wouldn't  want  his  daughter Hum! 

I  get  in  a  sweat  with  thinking  about  it Plunge, 

splash!  Winnie  on  that  white-faced  pony  going  into 
the  squeeze!  I  shouting  myself  hoarse!  She  paid 
no  attention.  Disobedience!  Reckless,  senseless, 
damnation  disobedience !  Swam  her  pony.  Pushed 
through,  somehow,  and  first  we  knew  she  was  tailing 
up  a  steer.  Yes.  Got  him  started,  and  that  did  the 
business.  The  rest  followed.  No  more  dead  car 
casses  drifting  down  stream.  Our  lads  yelling  like 
mad,  'She's  done  it!  The  kid,  she's  done  it!  She's 
set  us  across!'  'Yes,'  thinks  I,  'but  she's  going  to 
get  punished  just  the  same.  I  won't  have  her  doing 
that  sort  of  thing!'" 

While  he  talked  the  dark  mass  of  horses  in  the 
corral  had  begun  to  wander  away.  And  all  at  once 
the  white-faced  one  uttered  a  savage  squeal,  biting 
at  a  neighbour  and  at  the  same  moment  letting  fly 
with  his  hoofs  at  another  animal.  After  the  scamper 
and  temporary  commotion  had  subsided  the  cattle 
man  went  on: 

"  For  three  days  I  didn't  speak  to  Winifred.  Long 
days,  men!  Three  of  the  deadest,  longest  days! 
She  melted  me,  though.  She'd  be  around  with  her 
coaxing  ways,  teasing,  and  kissing,  and  getting  her 
arms  around  me,  and  sometimes  laughing  the  same 
as  her  mother  used  to  laugh.  On  the  fourth  day  she 
put  on  her  girl-clothes,  knowing  how  sick  I  was  of 
seeing  her  in  boots  and  shirt  and  breeches.  Did  that 
and  even  quit  her  cigarettes  for  awhile,  to  make 


26  Wine  o    the  Winds 

things  right  with  me.  Yes,  and  I  wish  she'd  stay 
shut  of  them,  for  good  and  all.  I  do.  It's  the  looks 
of  the  thing.  Her  mother  wouldn't  like  it.  And 

you.  Doctor  North Winnie  says  you  don't  like 

it,  either." 

It  surprised  the  young  man  to  hear  this ;  he  did  not 
know,  he  said,  that  his  opinion  on  this  point  had  been 
expressed. 

Her  father  went  on,  speaking  slowly  and  judi 
ciously:  "Well,  it's  not  little  flaws  that  count. 
It's  the  woman  in  her  that  counts.  All  it  needs, 
maybe,  is  to  be  gentled  and  fined  down.  And  look 
here,  now:  you  two  men,  you  North  brothers,  who 
carry  with  you  the  mark  of  blood  and  breeding — 
you,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  can  help  me  if  you  will. 
Talk  to  her;  that's  what  I  want.  Help  me  make  her 
understand  that  what  she  ought  to  have  is  school 
ing,  cultivation,  advantages  of  every  sort.  Home 
influence,  that's  what  she  needs.  And  there's  her 
mother's  sister  in  Springfield  would  be  glad  to  take 
her.  Wants  her.  Would  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  her." 

Victor  threw  away  the  cigar  he  had  been  smoking, 
and  its  rosy  glow,  curving  through  the  night,  splashed 
up  little  sparks  when  it  hit  the  ground.  "Strikes 
me,"  he  observed,  "that  you're  giving  us  rather  a  tall 
order.  I,  for  my  part,  do  not  feel  richly  qualified  to 
serve  as  wise  counsellor." 

"And  there  may  be  no  inviting  chance,"  Doctor 
North  added,  "to  impress  your  daughter  with  our 
overpowering  sagacity." 

Ignoring  the  note  of  satire,  the  father  observed: 
" Chance?  Why,  yes;  chance  enough.  For  instance, 


The  Girl  and  Her  Father  27 

the  rope-burn  on  her  neck  ought  to  be  getting  well. 
Treat  that,  if  you  will;  make  her  your  patient." 

Slowly  the  young  physician  replied,  as  if  it  might 
be  costing  him  painful  effort  to  get  out  the  words: 

"The  practice  of  medicine — sorry! — but  I've  given 
it  up." 

"Practice  be  damned!  A  little  grease  and  flour 
does  the  trick.  In  a  case  like  this,  surely  you  won't 
throw  off  on  me.  So,  come  now;  what  do  you  say?" 

He  had  rested  a  hand  on  a  shoulder  of  each  brother, 
and  stood  waiting  for  the  decision. 

Victor  did  not  speak.  His  conservative  and 
rather  suspicious  nature  could  but  withhold  the  ready 
response  he  would  like  to  make. 

The  younger  man,  on  the  contrary,  gave  a  prompt 
and  favourable  reply.  He  said  to  the  girl's  father: 
"Thanks  for  your  confidence.  And  even  if  nothing 
comes  of  it,  I'll  try  my  luck  at  persuasion." 

And  he  was  thinking: 

"What  a  queer  situation!  Piquant,  though.  It 
may  even  make  me  forget  that  all  such  insects  as  I 
ought  to  be  brushed  off  the  earth." 


CHAPTER  III 

Youth 

PROMPT  to  observe  the  friendly  humour  of  the 
three  men,  after  they  had  re-entered  the  ranch 
house,  the  girl  with  the  orange  shawl  aband 
oned  the  poker  table.     Nimbly  tripping,  she  came 
forward  at  once,  her  rose-coloured  skirt,  bell-shaped 
and  distended,  seeming  fairly  to  flow  along. 

Greeting  the  brothers  with  a  smile  and  a  prim  little 
curtsey,  she  did  not  await  an  invitation  from  Dr. 
Harry  North  to  dance,  but  offered  herself  as  a 
partner,  and  with  so  na'ive  a  grace  that  he  would 
have  been  churlish  to  decline  the  opportunity  of  es 
corting  her  forth  into  the  large  room  where  a  throng 
of  waltzers  eddied  and  whirled.  But  the  dance 
proved  not  much  of  a  success.  On  his  part  it  lacked 
flexibility,  being  altogether  too  formal,  too  un 
yieldingly  correct.  He  seemed,  indeed,  almost  to 
forget  the  presence  of  that  young  girl,  lithe  and  un 
trammelled,  rhythmically  swaying  in  his  arms. 

It  may  have  been  the  desire  to  withdraw  from  dizzy 
evolutions,  and  stuffiness,  and  uncongenial  festivity, 
which  made  him  prompt  in  letting  her  know  that  her 
father  had  asked  him  to  dress  the  abrasion  on  her 
neck.  A  good  idea,  she  assented,  cordially  adding 
that  there  were  horses  in  the  corral.  She  would  go 
"cinch  on  the  hulls";  they  would  each  "crawl  into 

28 


Youth  29 

the  saddle,  and  lam  away  down  yonder  to  the  cow- 
camp." 

On  the  way  thither,  riding  through  the  clearing 
prairie  night,  with  the  moon  still  wading  in  clouds 
but  sometimes  fitfully  revealing  her  companion, 
"Hark!"  she  presently  enjoined,  with  a  tone  of 
pleased  interest.  "That,  away  over  yonder  on  the 
river  flats,  is  the  singing  of  the  boys  on  night-herd." 

With  a  low-toned,  contralto  utterance,  she  herself 
hummed  the  tune,  keeping  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
melodists  remotely  heard;  and  afterward,  having 
caught  the  lilt  of  the  lyric,  she  even  sang  the  words 
which  North  took  to  be  the  happy  adaptation  of 
some  old  Spanish  ballad: 

"When  the  stars  wink  out,  and  the  day  comes  new, 
And  the  grass  runs  green  to  the  sky-rim's  blue, 
In  the  cup  o*  the  dawn  I  drink  to  you 
With  the  rise  o'  the  good  wind's  blowing. 

Wine  o*  the  wind,  wine  o9  the  wind, 
Wine  o*  the  big  winds  blowing!" 

Coming  to  the  last  line  of  the  refrain,  she  drolly 
imitated  the  deep  register  of  a  man's  bass  voice  sing 
ing  out  of  the  distance. 

"That  one— hear  it?"  she  asked.  "That  will  be 
old  Rollins.  'Whiskers'  the  boys  call  him.  Awfully 
proud  of  his  beard  and  his  voice.  Sings  a  lot;  but, 
generally  speaking,  he's  most  awful  quiet — and  nasty 
in  a  gun  fight.  The  outfit  didn't  take  any  notice  of 
him  the  night  he  cried.  The  boys  didn't  dare  notice 
him."  She  laughed  a  little.  "Queer  to  see  him  like 
that;  funny,  too:  drops  running  down  and  catching 


30  Wine  o    the  Winds 

in  his  gray  whiskers.  Ridiculous!  Just  stood  and 
cried.  I  made  him  cry." 

"You?     How  in  the  world?" 

"By  getting  punished.  Pappy  had  to  tie  me  up 
to  the  wagon-wheel.  And  he,  old  Rollins,  wanted  to 
turn  me  loose.  Wouldn't  do,  of  course;  I  wouldn't 
have  that.  So,  old  Rollins  cried.  You  see,  I  darn 
his  socks  for  him;  once  I  patched  his  shirt  for  him, 
and  he  could  hardly  stand  it  to  see  me  tied  up." 

While  opportunity  offered,  North  did  not  fail  to 
mention  that  what  her  father  greatly  coveted  for  her 
was  schooling,  social  advantages,  and  all  that.  Only 
she  did  not  want  to  go  to  her  Aunt  Bess.  She  would 
rather  go  to  her  Uncle  Jeff's.  But  if  she  did  go  there 
she  would  have  to  put  up  with  her  cousins.  "Nasty 
cousins,"  she  called  them.  They  were  the  sort,  it 
appeared,  to  refer  to  one  as  a  Johnny  rebel,  and  to  say 
that  her  drawling  Texas  vernacular  sounded  "nig- 
gery." 

While  she  went  on  describing  her  Eastern  relatives, 
another  flock  of  cloud  vapours  went  herding  across 
the  moon.  North  waited,  with  some  interest,  for  the 
nebulous  radiance  to  shine  clear  again,  for  under  that 
neutralizing  influence,  her  cheeks  lost  their  tanned 
and  weathered  look  and  were  even  given  a  pale 
lustre — an  effect  emphasized  by  the  contrast  of 
grape-purple  hair  shadowing  the  well-featured  count 
enance.  Seen  thus,  the  beauty  of  profile,  though 
lacking  refinement,  had  much  the  same  sort  of 
charm  as  that  face  which  so  insistently  haunted  his 
memory. 

"Too  bad  I'm  the  kind  to  fuss  my  Aunt  Eliza 
beth,"  the  girl  was  saying.  "For  she's  such  an  old 


Youth  31 

dear,  and  I  do  fret  her  so!  Well,  and  ought  I  to  go 
back  to  her? — that's  what  bothers  me." 

Did  she  imagine  that  his  rapt  look  and  doting 
admiration  were  the  homage  paid  her  undeniable 
attractiveness?  Whatever  the  girl  may  have 
thought,  it  is  certain  that  she  awarded  him  eager 
attention  when  he  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  Hugh 
Barton  would  regard  himself  as  a  poor  sort  of  father 
if  he  were  to  miss  giving  his  daughter  the  kind  of 
opportunities  which  he  felt  she  ought  to  have. 

For  all  that,  the  young  man  could  not  say,  posi 
tively,  that  he  subscribed  to  the  parental  idea. 
The  point  of  chief  importance  was  whether  she  would 
be  made  dull  and  unhappy  by  living  in  the  East. 

"Oh,  dullness,  dullness!"  young  Doctor  North 
exclaimed  with  protesting  earnestness.  "It's  dull 
ness  plays  the  devil  with  human  souls.  Your  dull 
man,  he  who  goes  stale  with  hard  work,  with  the 
weariness  of  business  or  professional  cares,  may  be  as 
bad  for  the  world  as  a  man  intentionally  wicked. 
Do  you  know  what  kind  of  men  make  the  most  will 
ing  volunteers  in  the  armies,  both  North  and  South? 
It  is  they  who  are  sick  of  cursed,  nagging,  carking 
responsibilities.  They  fight.  We  call  it  patriotism. 
But  isn't  it  boredom?  I've  known  of  sedate,  re 
spectable,  church-going  men  to  fly  off  the  handle. 
Sprees,  vice,  a  dirty  mess.  No  matter  that  one  may 
abominate,  with  his  whole  nature,  the  things  he  does. 
All  the  same,  he  does  them.  And  do  you  know  why? 
It's  his  release  from  dullness." 

He  stopped  short,  breathing  fast;  then  added  with 
a  disgruntled  smile: 

"Faugh,  what  gabble!    All  this,  and  yet  I  haven't 


32  Wine  <?  the  Winds 

said  what  I  mean.  I  only  mean,  Miss  Barton,  that  if 
this  wild  life  of  the  plains  is  pleasant  to  you,  then 
why  change  it  for  something  tame,  conventional, 
commonplace,  and  dull?" 

The  girl  suddenly  laughed.  She  laughed,  checked 
her  mirth,  said  "Excuse  me/'  and  even  put  a  hand 
over  her  mouth;  but  instantly  laughed  again  with 
hilarious  abandon.  Nor  could  Harry  North  under 
stand  what  it  was  all  about  until  she  fell  to  taunting 
him. 

"  Pappy  wants  to  send  me  to  my  aunt.  You  were 
to  back  him  up.  He  must  have  had  a  promise  out 
of  you.  And  what  a  way  you  have  of  keeping  your 
promise!" 

"Maybe  there's  a  higher  truth,"  he  answered, 
"than  the  mere  keeping  of  a  promise." 

At  once  he  felt  a  hand  resting  upon  his  arm,  and 
he  heard  the  girl  saying,  with  something  in  her  voice 
half  shy  and  wholly  wistful: 

"You  don't  get  preachy,  and  go  on  about  what's 
my  duty,  and  thus  and  so,  and  be  tiresome.  I 
didn't  mean  to  go  away,  but  I'm  going.  Now  I  am. 
I  want  to  learn  to  talk,  and  have  nice  ways — be 
genteel,  as  my  mother  used  to  say." 

He  did  not  answer^  but  he  was  as  one  who  no  longer 
sees  what  is  before  him,  even  though  it  be  something 
as  fresh  as  a  girl's  alluring  face  and  a  mouth  won- 
drously  red.  Poor  maid,  poor  hoyden  of  the  plains, 
she  had  been  forgotten,  suddenly  and  utterly. 

Nor  did  Winnie  lack  the  intuition  to  suspect  the 
cause  of  this  forgetting.  In  jealous  resentment  of  it, 
once  he  had  finished  with  dressing  the  rope-burn, 
among  her  friends  at  the  cow-camp,  she  pettishly 


Youth  33 

refused  to  ride  back  with  him  to  the  frontier  festivi 
ties  at  the  ranch.  If  he  wanted  to  go  on  thinking 
about  that  other  girl,  all  right;  let  him! 

North,  however,  was  not  in  a  humour  to  be  piqued 
by  this  snub.  The  open  country,  the  herdsmen 
singing,  the  drover's  daughter  and  her  father — they 
were  all  factors  in  an  unaccountable  joyousness  which 
had  come  to  him.  He  smiled,  he  breathed  deep  of 
the  moist  breeze  whispering  across  the  plains 
through  the  wet  grass;  and  he  spoke  absently  to  the 
girl  as  if  she  existed  for  him  not  as  an  individual, 
nor  scarcely  as  a  case  to  be  professionally  considered. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  while  the  cook's  lantern  at 
the  wagon  of  the  cattle-camp  still  yellowed  his  face. 
And  he  added  with  the  air  of  one  eager  to  be  off: 
"Must  be  going  now." 

Going  where?  He  could  not  have  told.  He  had 
started  away,  all  heedless  of  the  girl's  rather  huffy 
offer  of  a  saddle  horse.  "Better  ride  back  to  the 
ranch,"  she  said.  "A  long  way  to  walk." 

North  stopped  short,  and  came  back,  and  raised 
his  hat  in  a  manner  less  formal  than  boyish. 

"Not  nice  of  me,"  he  was  saying,  "positively  rude 
to  be  leaving  in  such  a  fashion!  No  word  of  thanks 
for  the  good  ride  and  the  good  talk  with  you.  It's 
been,  altogether,  something  jolly.  It's  stirred  me  up 
to  do  what  I  should  have  done  this  long  while  ago.  A 
letter,  that's  what  it  is;  I  must  be  writing  a  letter. 
No  horse,  thank  you;  for  it's  not  far  from  here  to  the 
stage-coach,  and  my  portmanteau  is  there.  I'll 
go  there  and  write  my  letter.  Good-night." 

Once  more  he  left  her,  forgot  her,  walking  away 
with  a  swing  and  a  light-footed  buoyancy. 


34  Wine  o    the  Winds 

He  did  not  look  back.  On  he  went,  hardly  know 
ing  whether  in  the  right  direction  or  not.  Nor  cared! 
For  hope  had  come  to  him,  gay  and  unreason 
ing;  a  giddy  youthfulness  of  hope  had  completely 
lifted  him  out  of  the  black  smother  of  his  self-con 
tempt.  He  was  humming  the  refrain  of  the  cow 
men's  song,  "Wine  o'  the  big  winds  blowing,"  and 
as  he  strode  along  he  kept  thinking  what  folly  it  had 
been  to  regard  himself  as  a  venomous  insect!  All 
nonsense.  He  might,  damn  it  all,  be  good  for  some 
thing  yet. 

As  for  contentment,  peace  of  mind,  happiness — no, 
of  course!  Miracles  aren't  possible.  There  can  be 
no  making  whole  a  shattered  romance.  All  the  same, 
he  would  write  to  Alice  Arden.  He  had  promised, 
and  he  would  do  it.  Why  not?  What  harm  to  let 
her  know  that  she  was  keeping  alive  in  him  the  desire 
to  be  good  for  something. 

Yes,  write;  that  was  the  thing — write,  write!  He 
knew  the  place,  but  how  find  words  for  writing? — 
wonderful  words  to  make  her  see  that  hope  still 
lived  in  him,  that  youth  had  lightened  him,  that  love 
— for  a  little  while — had  cloven  away  the  iron 
shackles  of  remorse. 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  stub  of  dull-pointed 
pencil,  and  smiled  as  he  looked  at  it,  with  a  fore 
knowledge  that  the  message,  also,  would  probably 
be  a  dull  thing. 

Well,  what  if  it  should  be?  No  matter  about 
prosy  words!  Her  eyes  would  light  them  up,  her 
understanding  would  give  them  grace,  her  woman's 
faith  in  him  would  know  how  to  warm  them  to 
eloquence. 


Youth  35 

Quick,  then — his  portmanteau,  paper,  a  carriage- 
lamp!  Toward  the  stage-coach,  temporarily  aband 
oned,  he  hastened  at  once;  and  with  travelling  bag 
across  his  knees,  he  wrote  the  hours  away.  He  wrote 
eagerly,  facilely,  never  hesitating  for  words.  Youth 
sang  in  him.  Love's  torch  so  brightly  burned  that 
the  light  of  dawn  had  gradually  subdued  the  candle- 
flame  to  a  dim  and  colourless  fire,  while  he,  still 
writing,  remained  all  unconscious  of  the  change, 
never  yet  suspecting  that  the  garish  day  had  come! 
Soon  after  the  brightening  dawn  had  dimmed  the 
candlelight,  the  swiftly  moving  pencil  finished  its 
work;  and  still  in  his  hopefulness  of  mood,  Harry 
North  signed  himself  "Youth"  to  the  last  of  the 
closely  written  pages.  For  of  the  intimate  and  en 
dearing  names  Alice  Arden  had  for  him,  this  one 
seemed  best  to  express  her  protecting  regard,  a  kind 
of  mothering  responsibility  for  him.  She,  in  truth, 
was  younger  in  years  than  he,  and  yet  she  liked  to 
call  him  "Youth!" 

The  letter  signed,  the  writer  dared  not  read  it  over; 
for  he  knew  he  would  not  be  pleased  with  the  achieve 
ment.  It  would  be  too  cold,  it  would  lack  elegance, 
it  would  say  too  much  or  not  enough,  be  excessively 
high  flown,  or  sadly  and  drearily  simple.  Better, 
then,  to  fold  it,  seal  it,  send  it — post  the  scribbled 
nonsense  now,  at  once,  and  have  done  with  it! 

Recalling  the  tent  seen  yesterday,  in  the  rainy 
darkness,  he  instantly  sped  off  down  the  trail.  The 
place,  he  thought,  could  not  be  far  distant,  since  the 
axle  had  snapped  shortly  after  the  coach  had  swung 
along  past  that  gray  shelter,  with  the  POST  OFFICE 
sign  obscurely  revealed  by  a  light  within.  Now  the 


36  Wine  o    the  Winds 

shrunken  canvas,  stretched  taut  with  the  wet,  was 
steaming  in  the  morning  sun. 

People  had  assembled  there.  A  wagon  train  hav 
ing  stopped  near  at  hand,  its  immigrant  population 
had  been  drawn  hither,  attracted  by  a  daubed  in 
scription:  "LETTERS  TO  THE  STATES,  5oC."  And 
being  instructed  by  the  practice  of  the  others,  young 
Doctor  North  inserted  a  half  dollar  through  a  slot 
in  a  barrel-top  and  let  the  clerk  have  his  letter. 

But  no  sooner  had  it  left  his  hand  than  the  impulse 
strengthened  in  him  to  have  it  back,  being  now  con 
vinced  that  it  could  be  nothing  better  than  im 
pudence  for  a  scapegrace  like  himself  to  be  paying  his 
addresses  to  such  a  woman!  He  had  set  her  free. 
She  should  be  done  with  him.  Never  again  would 
he  have  the  effrontery  to  see  her,  or  speak  to  her,  or 
write  to  her. 

"  Mail ! "  shouted  a  rider  who  came  galloping  swiftly 
up.  Mounted  on  a  buckskin-coloured  cay  use,  it  was 
a  wiry  young  fellow  with  hat-brim  and  cartridge-belt 
adorned  with  Mexican  coins.  He  seemed  extremely 
impatient,  he  fumed  irritably  while  letters  were  being 
checked  off,  tied  into  parcels,  and  thrust  hastily  into  a 
leather  pouch.  Then,  the  bag  being  tossed  to  him, 
he  struck  spurs  and  quirt  to  his  horse,  going  off  in  a 
burst  of  furious  speed. 

Well,  so  be  it.  Being  done  past  recalling,  why  re 
gret  what  was  done?  Once  more  Harry  North 
walked  lightly  and  breathed  deeply,  filling  his  lungs 
with  the  clean,  moist,  radiant  freshness  of  the 
prairies. 

Upborne  by  this  happiness,  intoxicated  with 
visions  no  less  bright  than  the  lark-singing  loveliness 


Youth  37 

of  the  sky  and  the  wild-flower  wonder  of  the  green 
plains,  he  did  not  see  the  east-bound  stage-coach 
rapidly  advancing,  until  the  silk-tipped  lash  of  a 
long  and  sinuous  whip  had  snapped  briskly  within 
some  hundred  yards  of  him.  Then  he  looked  up, 
surprised  by  bits  of  gay  colour.  A  wine-hued  para 
sol,  vivid  as  a  crimson  poppy,  bobbed  in  time  to  the 
sway  and  swing  of  the  vehicle,  beside  the  driver  whose 
whip-handle,  adorned  with  silver  ferrules,  kept 
flashing  in  the  brilliant  sun.  Ribbons  of  a  girl's 
bonnet,  red  ribbons  tied  under  her  chin,  fluttered  and 
gayly  danced. 

Suddenly  North  grew  aware  that  the  parasol  was 
not  merely  nodding;  he  saw  it  excitedly  bobbing  a 
salute  to  him,  and  he  heard  Winnie  Barton  gayly 
calling  out: 

"Good-bye,  Hal  North!  Good-bye!"  Other 
words,  mere  fragments  of  phrases,  came  drifting  back 
to  him:  "Write Promised Don't  for 
get!" 

He  smiled.  He  waved  his  hand  and  his  hat. 
All  his  innermost  being  gave  thanks  for  that  hoyden 
wild  thing,  the  drover's  daughter.  She  was  like  a 
draught  of  rude,  rough  wine. 

"The  wine  o'  the  big  winds  blowing." 

Good  hopes  had  revived  in  him.  Without  her, 
where  should  he  have  found  courage  to  write  any 
word  at  all  to  the  aunt  and  ungrudging  guardian  of 
three  orphaned  children,  that  glory  of  young  woman 
hood,  that  fine,  unselfish,  mothering  heart  whom  he 
knew  as  Alice  Arden  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

Drowned  Affection 

NO  LATER  than  the  day  following  Harry 
North's  night  of  ecstasized  authorship  in  the 
stage-coach,  a  distressing  truth  in  regard  to 
his  letter  came  unexpectedly  to  light  while  he  and  his 
brother  were  still  west-bound  passengers.  They  re 
mained  with  the  crippled  conveyance,  whose  broken 
part,  having  been  propped  up  by  a  sled-like  skid,  must 
be  slowly  dragged  along  toward  the  next  "home" 
station  for  blacksmithing  repairs  to  be  made. 

What  the  Norths  regarded  as  extraordinary  was 
the  lack  of  inquisitiveness  among  half-a-dozen 
mounted  men  while  passing  the  plodding  coach. 
They  asked  not  a  single  question  regarding  the 
accident  which  had  damaged  the  stout  vehicle.  Two 
men  on  mules,  and  the  rest  on  horses,  carried  rifles. 
One  of  the  party,  abruptly  reining  in  his  horse,  be 
gan  to  make  inquiries  about  something  which  must 
have  been  considered  of  vastly  more  importance 
than  any  mere  mishap  resulting  in  a  broken  axle. 

"Hey,  Cap!  I  say,  Cap!  Seen  anything  of  a 
post-office?  A  post-office  in  a  tent?" 

The  stage  driver  jocosely  answered: 

"Why?     Lost  one?" 

Another  of  the  armed  men,  a  gaunt  fellow  with 
tobacco  raising  a  lump  in  the  side  of  his  brown  and 

38 


Drowned  Affection  39 

bristly  cheek,  gave  a  spurt  of  brown  juice.  He  spat 
and  mournfully  declared: 

"It's  a  chore,  so  it  is;  it's  a  chore  to  write  letters. 
Costly,  too.  Four  bits  to  send  a  letter." 

The  first  man  added: 

"They  got  a  tent.  Sign  on  it,  'Fifty  Cents  to  the 
States.'  Maybe,  now,  you've  seen  such  a  tent. 
Have  you?" 

So  eagerly  insistent  was  the  demand  that  Doctor 
North  announced: 

"I  know  the  place.     I  posted  a  letter  there." 

"You  did!    When?     Where  'bouts?" 

"It  would  be  five  miles,  perhaps,  or  more,  straight 
on  down  the  valley." 

"Was  there  a  board  with  a  slit  in  it?" 

Being  assured  that  there  had  indeed  been  such  a 
slot  for  receiving  half  dollars,  the  inquisitor  hurriedly 
went  on: 

"Did  the  mail-rider  come  up  in  a  shirt-tearing 
rush?  His  horse  all  wet?  Hey,  was  his  horse  wet, 
or  not?" 

"Really,  I  can't  say." 

"What  kind  of  a  horse?" 

"A  cayuse.  Buckskin  coloured,  I  believe,  and 
very  swift." 

The  investigator  looked  round  at  his  companions. 
"There,  now!"  he  exclaimed. 

Apparently  they  had  all  travelled  far,  for  the  jaded 
mounts  with  heaving  sides  dripped  spume  from  the 
bits  and  sweat  from  the  fetlocks. 

No  more  was  said;  but  with  lean  jaws  grimly  set 
the  leader  carefully  wiped  the  forward  sight  of  his 
rifle  against  the  sleeve  of  his  linsey-woolsey  shirt. 


40  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

Next  moment  ke  struck  rowels  to  his  horse.  Other 
riders  did  the  same,  and  away  went  the  scattered 
cavalcade,  briskly  and  ominously  galloping. 

Before  the  throb  of  hoofs  had  quite  died  out  in  the 
prairie  distance  the  stage  driver  observed  with  mild 
interest:  "  Tear  to  be  going  somewheres.  And 
tolerable  earnest  about  it!" 

Later,  during  the  period  required  for  repairing  the 
stage-coach,  the  wife  of  the  man  who  kept  the  station 
treated  the  waiting  passengers  to  her  views  regarding 
the  probable  mission  of  the  armed  men.  "They 
stopped  here,"  she  said,  "to  water  their  stock,  to 
ask  questions.  And  the  way  they  spoke  up  about 

that  post-office IVe  heard  of  it  before.  It's 

a  swindle.  Must  be.  You  can't  make  nothing  else 
out  of  it.  Weeks  ago  we  heard  tell  of  the  fraud. 
And  didn't  believe  it.  Sounded  made-up  and 
unreasonable.  Too  much  risk  about  it  to  be  true. 
Of  course,  crooked  Johnnies  might  come  such  a  trick 
— once,  or  maybe  twice;  but  to  work  such  a  swindle 
steady  and  regular  might  be  just  a  leetle  bit  brash. 
First  we  heard  of  the  post-office  dodge  was  when  it 
got  started  near  Fort  Laramie;  and  next,  after  that, 
it  got  to  working  at  Cottonwood  Springs."* 


*The  bogus  post-office  on  the  plains  was  at  one  time  a  feature  of  the  life  of  the 
pioneers.  It  is  described  by  the  late  John  S.  Collins,  post  trader  at  Fort 
Laramie  from  1872-82,  in  his  book  of  reminiscences,  "Across  the  Plains  in  '61." 

"Two  'Johnnies-Come-Lately'  had  set  up  a  tent,  cut  a  slit  in  a  board  large 
enough  to  pass  a  silver  dollar,  laid  this  across  a  barrel,  into  which  they  dropped  a. 
half  dollar  for  each  letter.  While  letters  were  being  checked  off  a  rider  on  a 
cayuse  pony  would  ride  up  in  great  haste,  and  call  for  mail,  saying,  'Can't  wait. 
Behind  time',  etc.  He  had  just  come  out  of  the  river,  wet  to  the  back.  When 
the  bag  of  mail  was  handed  out  he  was  off,  to  ride  further  down  the  Platte.  He 
would  dump  the  mail  into  the  river,  turn  his  pony  out,  and  wait  for  the  arrival 
of  the  next  train  of  pilgrims.  Sergeant  Snyder  of  Fort  Laramie  said:  'It  was 
nothing  but  a  damn  swindle,  but  they  made  a  bushel  o'  money  out  of  it.'" 


Drowned  Affection  41 

In  the  kitchen  doorway  of  the  stage  station  the 
woman  had  begun  to  wipe  a  dripping  platter,  a 
capacious  dish  upon  which  antelope  steaks  had  re 
cently  been  served.  Her  audience,  the  North 
brothers,  remained  seated,  meanwhile,  on  a  bench 
in  the  shade  of  the  house  wall. 

"Swindle?"  Victor  repeated,  inquiringly.  "We 
don't,  I'm  afraid,  quite  get  what  you  mean." 

"Why,  a  false  post-office — that's  the  point.  Mail 
don't  go  to  the  States.  Nothing  like  it.  Post  rider 
only  goes  flogging  along  down  the  river  a  piece;  and 
safe  out  o '  sight — a  mile  or  two,  mebbe — he  rides  into 
the  water,  dumps  out  the  letters,  and  then  lazies 
around  till  the  next  immigrant  outfit  comes  along." 

"A  clever  trick,  right  enough!"  Victor  North  ex 
claimed. 

"It  is,"  the  woman  agreed.  "It's  smart.  But 
unsafe!  For  them  Missouri  pilgrims,  who  knows, 
might  get  on  the  rampage  and  act  rough.  Hope 
they  won't  be  too  harsh.  Might  do  good  to  slit  open 
a  rapscallion  hide  with  ox- whips;  that,  I  reckon, 
wouldn't  be  too  on-Christian.  But — you  can't  tell. 
Once  a  bunch  o*  men  get  their  dander  up  over  a  raw 
deal,  and  you  can't  never  tell  how  far.  they'll  go. 
If  it  was  important  letters  they  wrote  to  the  folks 
back  home;  if  it  was  real  important  letters  that  got 
splashed  into  the  river,  you  better  believe  /  wouldn't 
want  to  be  the  postmaster  of  that  tent  outfit.  You 
bet' I  wouldn't!  Not  me!" 

Once  the  stage  journey  had  been  resumed,  Harry 
North  sat  very  still,  moving  only  with  the  rocking 
motion  of  the  coach  as  he  went  on  gazing  stead 
fastly  at  the  floor.  So,  then,  the  letter  he  had 


42,  Wine  o    the  Winds 

written,  the  letter  of  hope  and  honesty  and  profound 
affection,  had  got  nowhere.  He  thought  of  it  a-swirl 
in  swift  waters.  He  had  a  vision  of  sodden  paper 
pulp,  of  something  soaked  and  submerged,  a  tiny 
raft  bravely  riding  the  current  for  a  time,  to  sink  at 
last  and  vanish  utterly,  a  thing  done  for,  and  useless 
as  a  melted  snowflake. 

Alice  Arden  did  not,  in  truth,  receive  that  letter; 
and  there  would  be  no  other. 


PART  II 
HOPES 


CHAPTER  I 

Settlement 

EAGER  questionings  filled  the  first  letter  from 
Alice  Arden,  which  Victor  North  received  in 
Atchison,  Kansas,  after  he  had  gone  West 
with  his  brother.  What,  she  asked,  were  the  people 
like?  Were  there  schools  in  the  new  settlements? 
Had  there  been  any  recent  cyclones? 

She  further  mentioned  intimate  friends  of  her 
family,  Captain  Harris  and  his  wife.  The  Harrises, 
she  thought,  would  be  likely  to  emigrate  to  the  new 
country,  possibly  to  Kansas  or  Nebraska  Territory. 

"Ever  since  the  Mexican  War,"  Alice  wrote,  "the 
Captain  has  been  keen  for  pioneering.  He  believes 
he  could  do  well  as  a  town-site  promoter." 

Not  much  penetration  was  required  to  understand 
what  she  had  in  mind.  If  she  remained  in  the  old 
town,  back  East,  she  knew  she  would  not  see  Harry 
North  again.  He  would  never  return.  But  out 
yonder,  in  that  far  wilderness — who  knows? 

Were  she  one  with  only  herself  to  consider,  doubt 
less  she  would  have  the  courage,  and  the  audacity, 
too,  of  venturing  into  the  new  country.  Yet  being 
encumbered  with  the  care  of  three  orphaned  children, 
was  she  a  person  to  risk  the  hardships  and  the  dan 
gers  of  a  rough  life  on  the  frontier? 

Victor  North  thought  not.     The  letters  he  had 

45 


46  Wine  o   the  Winds 

from  her  he  kept  exclusively  to  himself,  and  he  even 
jubilated  that  her  fostering  of  two  small  nephews 
and  a  niece  would  be  the  responsibility  anchoring  her 
to  that  region  of  security  and  safe  living  in  eastern 
Ohio.  He  would  return  to  her  there — and  would 
return  alone. 

This  being,  at  least,  his  sentimental  programme, 
the  Pacific  West  with  its  multiplicity  of  golden  op 
portunities  staunchly  withheld  from  him  all  its 
gainful  chances.  California,  to  such  a  man,  could  be 
merely  a  place  of  exile  where  one  waits  until  his 
brother,  a  spiritual  cripple,  can  be  put  back  firmly 
upon  his  feet.  Once  this  fraternal  obligation  should 
be  faithfully  discharged,  all  the  mines  of  that  region 
recently  acquired  from  Mexico  and  now  much  war- 
disturbed  through  efforts  of  the  Confederacy  to  hold 
it  for  the  South,  would  never  suffice  to  keep  him 
there. 

In  a  desultory  fashion,  it  is  true,  he  and  his  brother 
tried  to  identify  themselves  with  the  country-  They 
visited  mining  camps;  they  "prospected"  a  little; 
they  went  looking  about  "for  an  opening,"  as  people 
say.  But  though  a  twelvemonth  finally  unwound 
itself,  in  this  manner,  from  the  snarled  and  unsatis 
factory  skein  of  Victor  North's  existence,  it  must  be 
confessed  that  never,  for  a  minute's  time,  had  he  been 
living  here,  but  always  back  yonder,  in  Ohio,  where 
remained  that  metal  far  more  attractive  than  richest 
nuggets  of  Californian  gold. 

Formerly  he  had  regretted  deeply  the  guardianship 
responsibility  which  the  death  of  a  widowed  sister 
had  imposed  upon  Alice  Arden;  but  now  her  situa 
tion  was  only  to  be  regarded  as  a  fortuitous  circum- 


Settlement  47 

stance.  On  the  children's  account,  so  he  believed, 
she  durst  not  hazard  the  uncertainty  and  mischances 
of  pioneering.  Surely  she  would  not,  she  could  not 
come  West;  and  Harry  North  would  not  go  East. 

Very  good!  Especially  good,  seeing  that  she  was 
no  longer  bound  to  Hal  by  the  ties  of  betrothal. 

Times  innumerable  Victor  reviewed  the  episode 
of  his  brother's  disgrace,  particularly  the  confession — 
a  scene  affecting  not  only  those  most  painfully  con 
cerned,  but  even  the  juvenile  members  of  the  house 
hold,  especially  the  younger  nephew,  little  Connie. 
For  to  the  sensitive  mind  of  childhood  how  myste 
riously  vivid  are  the  moments  of  inexplicable  trouble 
and  domestic  crisis! 

On  that  distraught  morning,  in  the  opening  stage  of 
the  unhappy  conference,  the  gay,  chirpy  voices  in  the 
bedroom  upstairs  had  been  heard  below,  as  soldiers 
may  hear  the  singing  of  a  lark  during  the  grim  busi 
ness  of  battle.  The  little  boys  had  begun  dressing 
themselves,  and  were  having  a  frolic  over  it,  a 
regular  giggling  fit. 

Presently  their  laughter  came  to  an  end,  for  they 
could  not  help  growing  absorbed  in  something 
curious,  something  to  be  felt  with  their  bare  feet. 
Their  soles  had  begun  to  tingle  slightly  with  faint 
vibrations  of  the  floor  which  must  have  been  caused 
by  the  peculiar  resonance  of  the  voice  of  one  whom 
the  children  knew  as  Dockey  North.  Downstairs 
he  was  talking  very  fast.  He  was  talking  in  a  strange, 
new  way.  The  boys  could  not  hear  what  he  said; 
but  what  they  felt  seemed  to  them  unusual  and 
startling. 

Connie  wanted  to  find  out,  at  once,  about  this 


48  Wine  o    the  Winds 

queer  thing;  and  so  ran  away,  half  undressed,  without 
waiting  for  Arthur  to  button  him  up  behind.  He  was 
nearly  downstairs  when  he  stopped  on  a  step  where 
a  slice  of  sunshine  lay.  He  liked  that  yellow  streak; 
it  felt  so  good  and  warm  to  his  feet !  When  he  held 
up  one  of  them  against  the  window,  where  the  strong 
light  came  squirting  in,  it  amused  him  to  see  his  toes 
turn  from  pink  to  red,  with  a  wonderful  redness,  like 
five  little  embers  brightly  glowing. 

For  a  time  he  was  more  interested  in  them  than 
in  the  excited  talk;  but  as  one  and  another  of  those 
in  the  front  room  continued  to  speak,  he  recognized 
each  of  them.  Old  Doctor  Malcolm,  from  next  door, 
seemed  terribly  cross  about  something.  Now  Victor 
North  talked  a  little;  and  now,  in  a  hushed,  frail 
voice,  Aunt  Alice  put  in  a  word;  and  later  Dockey 
North  would  be  going  it  again  in  a  sharp,  harsh, 
nervous  way. 

None  of  the  talk  was  a  good  kind.  The  silences  in 
it,  the  strain  of  it,  the  halting  intervals  and  waits! 

"No,  I  better  clear  out — go  West,"  Doctor  North 
was  saying. 

"  Not  that,"  Alice  implored.     "  You  mustn't ! " 

One  felt  the  quake  of  some  person  walking  about. 
It  must  be  heavy  Doctor  Malcolm  who  tramped  like 
that — tramped  and  tramped,  and  finally  stopped. 

Then  the  deep  young  voice  that  gave  you  a  tingle 
said  with  a  snap: 

"But  yes,  I  must.  That's  it;  clear  out,  go  West, 
quit  the  practice  of  medicine.  Drop  it  for  good!" 

The  little  boy  had  a  feeling  of  naughtiness  and 
guilt  when  he  turned  the  knob,  and  warily  slipped 
into  the  front  room.  Doubtless  the  general  tone 


Settlement  49 

of  the  scene,  and  the  trouble  in  it,  made  him  feel 
ashamed;  for  he  stopped  short,  much  frightened,  and 
expecting  to  be  sent  away. 

"  Felt  all  right.  Perfectly  so,"  Doctor  North  went 
on.  "Laid  out  the  instruments,  got  ready.  Never 
felt  more  competent.  Head  clear  as  a  bell.  And 
then — I  don't  know The  heat,  perhaps.  Every 
thing  went  black." 

That  belated  tipsiness  after  a  convivial  evening 
may  treacherously  cause  everything  to  go  black,  the 
little  boy,  of  course,  was  not  to  understand.  But  a 
miserable  feeling  had  come  to  him.  He  wanted  to 
run  to  his  Aunt  Alice,  and  be  caught  up  in  her  arms. 

Victor  North,  likewise,  had  a  frightened  look;  and 
being  the  only  one  to  notice  the  child,  he  took  the 
little  boy  by  the  arm. 

"Go  away,  young  man,"  he  said,  and  Connie  was 
thrust  from  the  room. 

Always  before  the  little  boy  had  been  petted  by 
that  very  friendly  Victor  North.  And  now  to  be 
pushed  about  by  him!  Now  to  be  called  "young 
man"!  The  child  plumped  right  down  on  a  step, 
and  began  to  cry. 

Even  to  be  rescued  from  there,  and  taken  away  to 
the  kitchen  by  Cousin  Hattie,  did  not  help  much. 
For  she  had  brusque,  scraggy  ways,  this  Cousin 
Hattie;  her  kisses  prickled;  she  never  had  any  of  the 
warmth  and  smiling  kindness,  none  of  the  bloom  and 
fragrance  and  laughter  which  glorified  his  Aunt  Alice. 

In  the  after  months  Victor  North  used  to  wonder 
whether  that  girl  of  mothering  ways  and  tenderness 
with  children  was  still  keeping  her  freshness  and 
some  of  her  laughter.  Very  likely  she  would  be 


50  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

wanting  to  get  away,  he  thought,  from  that  town  of 
distressing  associations;  but  for  her  to  come  out  to 
the  new  country  with  those  pioneering  Harrises — no, 
that  would  not  be  the  thing  for  her.  Certainly  not! 
She,  with  those  three  orphans  on  her  hands! 

The  frontier  would  hardly  be  suitable  for  her,  he 
wrote,  even  if  the  necessity  arising  through  the  death 
of  the  children's  parents  had  not  demanded  of  her 
that  she  continue  her  guardianship  of  those  two 
nephews — one  four,  one  six — and  of  Florence,  their 
sister,  now  coming  into  her  tenth  year.  Victor  did 
not  conceal  from  Alice  Arden  that  he  regarded  it  as  a 
scheme  altogether  fantastic,  this  intimated  notion 
of  hers  about  coming  West  with  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Harris.  In  every  way  possible,  through  his  passion 
ate  self-interest,  the  young  man  meant  to  oppose 
the  plan  and  triumphantly  discourage  it. 

But,  as  it  fell  out,  Alice  Arden  had  not  been  dis 
couraged.  She  had  come. 

During  the  term  of  the  Norths'  sojourn  in  Cali 
fornia,  Victor  eventually  received  letters  which  told 
of  the  Nebraska  community  where  she,  the  children, 
and  her  friends,  had  finally  settled.  Once  she  ex 
plained  that  Tecon,  the  name  of  the  hamlet  on  the 
Elkhorn  River,  was  derived  from  the  Omaha  words 
te  for  buffalo,  and  con  meaning  pale.  She  had  heard 
it  said  that  the  sacred  white  buffalo  of  the  tribes  folk 
had  been  taken  captive  not  far  from  where  the 
village  now  stood. 

Since  cheap  government  land,  along  the  river, 
could  be  had  at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  an  acre,  sightly 
tracts  of  hill  and  wooded  ravine  would  serve  ac 
ceptably  for  adjoining  homesteads,  one  farm  to  be 


Settlement  51 

held  by  the  Harrises  under   the   preemption  law, 
and  the  other  by  herself. 

Upon  their  arrival  in  the  settlement  she  had  counted 
a  half-dozen  cabins  widely  separated.  It  amused 
her  that  the  projectors  (with  an  ambitious  eye  for 
the  future)  had  put  this  meagre  neighbourhood  on 
their  map  with  showy  pretentiousness,  not  as  a  vil 
lage,  nor  yet  as  a  town,  but  as  Tecon  City.  It  hoped 
to  have  a  college;  it  wanted  to  be  the  capital  of 
Nebraska  Territory;  but  it  began  with  a  trading  post 
called  the  Red  Store. 

The  court  house  and  the  public  school  might  be 
conspicuous  as  possibilities;  they  might  even  be 
boldly  marked,  in  red  ink,  on  the  plat  of  the  Town- 
site  Company,  but  one  could  see  for  one's  self  that  at 
least  a  blacksmith  shop,  with  its  blue-black  and 
smoky  interior,  had  become  an  actuality.  A  char 
red  jumble  of  burnt  timbers  and  gray  ash  showed 
where  the  stage  station  used  to  stand;  and  that  a 
new  one  was  to  be  erected  might  be  heard  screech- 
ingly  proclaimed  by  a  shingle  machine  actively 
operated  by  two  men. 

Residence  having  been  effectively  established  in 
Tecon,  the  girl  pioneer  had  at  first  been  robustly 
cheerful — and  hopeful,  too;  but  finally  the  time 
arrived  when  she  could  no  longer  cling  to  the  faith 
that  all,  in  the  end,  must  come  right.  She  had  re 
ceived  no  letter  from  Doctor  North.  Autumn 
darkened  into  winter;  November  had  passed;  Decem 
ber  was  passing;  and  finally  the  time  came  round  for 
the  settlement  to  make  merry  in  celebrating  its  first 
Christmas. 

Still  no  word  from  the  man  she  loved! 


CHAPTER  II 

Holiday  Time 

WHEN  the  women  of  the  committee  went  to 
see  Seth  Miller,  who  keeps  the  Red  Store  in 
Tecon  City,  he  said  it  would  be  all  right  to 
hold  the  Christmas  festival  in  the  hall  upstairs. 
They  could  have  the  hall  rent  free.  Only  he  did  not 
want  to  take  the  bright  tin-foil  off  his  plug  tobacco. 
He  also  objected  to  removing  the  green  tissue  paper 
from  his  stock  of  spun  wool  and  yarn.  But  the 
paper  and  the  foil,  he  was  told,  were  indispensable. 
For  the  Christmas  tree  should  be  dressed,  shouldn't 
it? 

Being  a  horribly  naked  tree,  a  leafless  box  elder, 
it  would  require  a  lot  of  dressing.  If  only  a  fir  or  an 
evergreen  were  to  be  had!  But  no,  these  sparse 
woods  along  the  Elkhorn  River  produced  nothing  of 
that  sort.  Too  bad  they  didn't.  The  scraggy  box 
elder  would  have  to  be  made  green  with  paper. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  Seth  Miller  observed,  trying 
to  look  interested;  yet  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not 
see  why  a  box  elder  or  even  a  cottonwood  tree  might 
not  serve  well  enough  for  a  celebration  without  hav 
ing  green  paper  stuck  all  over  it.  In  the  end  he 
acceded,  as  gracefully  as  possible,  to  the  demands  of 
the  committee.  He  even  gave  the  women  some  tin 
scraps  that  could  be  made  into  bright  ornaments. 

52 


Holiday  Time  53 

Learning  finally  that  the  tree  (all  fussed  up  with 
paper  and  Jim-cracks  and  grown  inflammable  as  tow) 
would  have  lighted  candles  on  it,  Seth  put  his  foot 
down  on  the  whole  affair.  He  was  vastly  afraid  of 
fire.  Ever  since  the  stage  -station  had  burned  down 
he  could  hardly  sleep  for  fear  something  might 
happen  to  the  Red  Store.  Never  did  the  community 
hold  a  public  meeting  of  any  sort  but  that  Seth 
Miller  would  be  on  hand  to  advocate  strongly  the 
ploughing  of  fire-guards. 

Naturally  it  could  only  be  regarded  as  unfortunate 
that  anything  had  been  said  about  candles  on  the 
Christmas  tree;  but  Mrs.  "Cap"  Harris  would,  of 
course,  rise  to  this  occasion. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "hand  over  that  bunch  of  metal 
scraps  and  tin-foil  and  green  paper.  Thanks.  But 
shame  on  you,  Seth  Miller,  to  think  we  could  get 
along  without  candles.  Can't  be  done.  Children 
wouldn't  give  shucks  for  a  Christmas  tree  that  wasn't 
gay  and  all  lit  up.  So,  I  tell  you  what  you  better  do. 
Just  have  a  barrel  of  water  and  a  bucket  handy 
when  we  light  the  candles." 

The  storekeeper  said  nothing.  He  took  snuff  out 
of  a  little  box  that  had  a  lady  painted  on  the  cover. 
But  you  couldn't  make  out  whether  she  was  a  pretty 
lady,  for  in  the  place  where  his  thumb  came  he  had 
pasted  a  piece  of  paper,  so  that  her  face  would  not 
get  rubbed  off. 

He  must  have  considered  it  good  advice  that  Mrs. 
Harris  had  given.  Only  he  exceeded  her  suggestion, 
providing  himself  with  two  water-barrels.  On  the 
night  of  the  entertainment  he  sat  near  them,  right  up 
in  front,  with  a  bucket  between  his  knees,  as  if  he 


54  Wine  o    the  Winds 

were  going  to  milk  a  cow.  He  fidgeted,  took  snuff 
repeatedly;  he  was  in  misery  the  whole  evening. 

It  had  been  needless,  all  the  same,  to  be  so  per 
turbed;  for  nothing  happened — nothing  serious. 
Once,  to  be  sure,  a  twig  of  the  green-papered  tree 
flared  like  a  little  torch;  but  instantly  someone  put 
out  the  flame.  Everybody  said  that  the  box  elder, 
being  lit  with  many  candles,  and  glittering  all  over, 
made  a  brave  show.  In  addition  to  the  festoons  of 
white  popcorn,  the  scarlet  berries  of  bittersweet  had 
been  threaded  together  in  clusters,  and  caught  in  the 
branches  to  give  brilliant  notes  of  colour. 

Many  people,  some  coming  from  far»-away  home 
steads,  attended  the  festival;  and  after  Sophia 
Billings,  the  village  poetess,  had  started  to  read 
"the  piece"  she  had  composed  about  "Our  First 
Christmas  Tree,"  she  was  interrupted  by  a  noise  of 
boisterous  men  coming  up  the  outside  stairs.  They 
were  very  hilarious.  Some  of  them  hooted  like  a  war 
party  of  Indians;  others  began  bellowing  that 
familiar  freighters'  song: 

My  name  is  Joe  Bowers, 
Fve  got  a  brother  Ike; 
I  come  from  old  Missouri, 
All  the  way  from  County  Pike. 
I'll  tell  you  how  I  came  here, 
And  how  I  came  to  roam, 
And  leave  my  good  old  mammy, 
So  far  away  from  home. 

It  was  not  the  thing  to  have  those  roystering 
fellows  come  in  here,  with  their  yells  and  their  guffaws 
and  their  song-howling.  Mrs.  Cap  Harris  stood  up 
at  once,  and  pointed  to  the  back  of  the  hall. 


Holiday  Time  55 

"Cass  Fisher,"  she  shouted,  "the  committee 
appoints  you  doorkeeper  and  sergeant-at-arms.  We 
women  have  spent  a  lot  of  time  and  hard  work  on  this 
entertainment,  and  we  don't  want  it  spoiled.  You're 
appointed  and  empowered  to  keep  order.  You 
mustn't  let  any  boys  in  here  that  are  tanked  too 
much." 

"Don't  want  the  job,"  Cass  Fisher  loudly  de 
murred.  He  himself  was  red-faced,  inclined  to  be 
noisy,  and  in  truth,  he  had  much  annoyed  people 
with  his  loud  talking. 

"You've  got  to  be  doorkeeper,"  Mrs.  Harris 
insisted. 

"I  ain't  fixed  for  it,"  he  objected. 

"You  ain't?  What's  the  reason  you  ain't? 
You've  got  your  guns  on." 

It  was  true;  for  Cassius  Fisher,  being  frequently 
employed  as  an  express  guard,  was  the  sort  of  man 
who  would  as  lief  go  without  trousers  as  to  go 
without  his  brace  of  six-shooters. 

"That  ain't  it,"  he  protested.  "But  you  see, 
now Dat  bust  it,  I've  took  some  on  board  my 
self.  I'm  a  little  tight.  I  ain't  fixed  to  keep  order." 

"Yes,  you  are.     And  you've  got  it  to  do." 

"Well,  if  that's  how  it's  got  to  be — all  right,  then, 
if  that's  it." 

He  strode  over  to  the  door,  clumping  heavily  and 
elbowing  people  aside.  Then,  by  way  of  welcoming 
the  noisy  contingent,  he  prodded  their  leader  with  his 
elbow,  and  hammered  for  silence  with  a  heavy  re 
volver. 

"Quit  yellin'!"  he  commanded.  "Shut  your  yaps, 
all  of  yous.  Where's  your  manners?  This  ain't  no 


56  Wine  o   the  Winds 

dog  fight.  This  here's  a  show,  a  good  show,  a  regular 
Christmas  show.  The  ladies  has  been  to  an  awful 
expense  to  get  it  up.  And  what  we  got  to  do  is  to 
help  out.  So  crawl  along  here,  every  mother's 
coyote  of  you.  Come  up,  and  flop  something  into 
the  hat." 

It  was  a  curious  offering  he  collected:  pocket- 
knives,  poker-chips,  buttons,  silver  coins,  little  wads 
of  gold  dust,  and  even  some  nuggets.  Later,  the  hat 
having  been  carried  up  front  and  emptied,  the 
sergeant-at-arms  returned  to  his  post. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  rejoining  the  hilarious  new 
comers,  "it's  too  rotten  hot  in  this  hall.  If  we  stay 
here,  our  little  headies  might  get  to  achin'.  I 
reckon  we  all  better  go  back  to  Mike's  and  wet  up." 

Out  of  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs  he  led  the 
boisterous  merrymakers.  Their  heavy  descent  and 
the  bellowing  of  the  song  about  Joe  Bowers  jarred 
the  windows. 

There  was  a  gal  in  our  town 
Her  name  was  Sally  Black; 
I  asked  her  for  to  marry  me, 
She  said  it  was  a  whack. 
Says  she  to  me,  "Joe  Bowers, 
Before  we  hitch  for  life 
You  ought  to  have  a  little  home 
To  keep  your  little  wife." 

This  ballad  of  many  verses,  punctuated  with 
occasional  howls,  diminished  steadily  in  volume, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  finally  dying  quite 
away. 

After  the  programme  had  been  carried  out,  and  the 


Holiday  Time  57 

last  carol  sung  to  an  end,  with  a  wheezy  organ  as 
accompaniment,  Ace  Thomas  shouted  out  the  sug 
gestion  that  everybody  stay,  push  back  chairs  and 
benches,  and  make  a  night  of  it.  Of  course,  making 
a  night  of  it  meant  a  dance. 

So  the  Methodists  began  to  go  home  at  once. 
Elder  Wiggins  was  for  staying  awhile,  and  even 
squeezed  in  among  men  about  the  stove.  But  Mrs. 
Wiggins  promptly  sought  him  out,  haled  him  forth, 
and  so  removed  him  from  what  she  called  "this 
godlessness." 

Seth  Martin  let  it  be  known  that  he  himself  most 
decidedly  did  not  favour  the  dance.  He  was  strongly 
of  the  opinion  that  the  hall  was  too  little.  Scarcely 
room  enough,  he  said,  to  run  two  sets!  His  real 
objection,  of  course,  could  be  nothing  else  than  that 
the  quaking  of  the  floor  would  be  sure  to  shake  down 
dust  over  his  stock  of  dry  goods. 

It  proved  an  easy  matter  to  have  his  objection 
overruled.  He  was  merely  told,  briefly  and  em 
phatically,  not  to  be  so  fussy! 

Ace  Thomas  told  him  so,  although  the  truth  later 
came  out  that  Ace  himself  was  not  a  dancer.  What 
he  wanted  was  to  show  off  the  terpsichorean  ability 
of  his  wife's  mother,  a  much-wrinkled  little  woman 
wearing  a  lacy  white  cap,  a  white  fichu,  and  a  gray 
dress.  She,  it  appears,  had  come  through  all  her 
sixty-seven  years  with  the  joy  of  youth  still  shining 
in  her  faded  eyes.  Ace  offered  to  bet  five  dollars 
that  not  a  young  fellow  in  the  whole  assembly  could 
dance  her  down. 

At  first  the  proposed  revel  looked  a  little  doubtful, 
seeing  that  the  Methodists  had  emphasized  their 


58  Wine  o   the  Winds 

protest  by  locking  up  the  melodeon,  an  instrument 
to  be  used  for  praise  service  only.  In  times  past  it 
had  been  placed  at  the  disposal  of  Baptists,  Catho 
lics,  Episcopalians,  and  had  even  been  offered  to  the 
Mormons;  but  to  let  it  be  given  over  to  the  works  of 
Satan — never! 

Some  of  the  godless  declared,  however,  that  it 
would  not  be  much  of  a  trick  to  force  the  organ  open. 
Still,  that  was  not  the  thing  to  do.  Swede  Norstrom, 
the  wheelwright,  brought  his  Old  Country  accordeon, 
Dooley  fetched  his  fiddle,  and  Butch  Swartzlander, 
once  the  leader  of  a  brass  band  in  Toledo,  went  after 
his  cornet. 

Alice  did  not  care  to  stay.  Her  attendance  here 
had  been  for  the  children,  duty  rather  than  desire; 
and  now  the  need  of  putting  them  to  bed  (Connie 
had  indeed  gone  to  sleep  in  her  lap)  might  well  be 
made  her  pretext  for  going  home.  She  must  have 
felt,  besides,  a  certain  fastidious  shrinking  from  con 
tact  with  uncouth  personalities  and  rough  hands; 
for  she  had  not  yet  adapted  herself  to  the  broad,  free 
hearted  social  conditions  of  the  frontier.  Often  it 
vexed  her  that  she  could  not  make  herself  unre 
servedly  a  part  of  the  new  life.  But  there  it  was. 
She  did  not  want  any  of  these  gawky  young  men  for  a 
dancing  partner,  and  was  equally  unwilling  to  offend 
any  of  them  by  refusal. 

So,  with  the  little  boy  in  her  arms,  she  rose  to 
depart,  while  all  around  her  the  hall  resounded  with 
the  liveliest  commotion.  Chairs  scraped,  benches 
were  pushed  back.  Everywhere  bustle,  flurry,  rol 
licking  energy !  Dark  window-panes  the  women  used 
for  mirrors,  giddy  girls  laughed,  little  boys  scam- 


Holiday  Time  59 

pered,  the  orchestra  began  tuning  up,  and  in  no  time 
at  all  the  Virginia  reel  was  forming.  Four  couples, 
six  couples,  eight  couples,  other  couples  on  the  way! 
The  last  of  them  too  late,  and  laughing  that  the 
floor  was  already  full.  Such  a  romping  of  feet,  such  a 
skip  and  swing  and  clatter,  such  a  saluting  of  part 
ners  and  gay  prancing  up  and  down  the  centre! 

By  the  time  the  dance  began  Alice  had  shepherded 
her  prankish  nephew  and  coaxing  niece  out  of  the 
vortex  of  merriment;  and  it  was  not  until  Florence 
stood  on  a  chair  to  hold  the  blue  cloak  for  the  en 
folding  of  her  aunt's  shoulders  that  the  girl  pioneer 
changed  her  mind,  saying  with  tremulous  resolution: 

"No,  after  all,  give  it  to  me." 

With  the  garment  she  snugly  wrapped  up  the  sleep 
ing  child,  and  put  him  to  bed  on  chairs  against  the 
wall,  exactly  in  the  manner  that  mothers  had  dis 
posed  of  their  babies  and  small  sleepyheads. 

"I'll  stay  awhile.  I'll  dance,"  Alice  announced, 
and  laughed  in  rather  a  strained,  unnatural  way. 

And  she  did  dance.  She  really  did.  She  was  gay, 
almost  giddy  about  it.  Of  young  cheeks  flushing, 
none  brightened  more  than  hers;  of  eyes  aglow  with 
youth  and  excitement,  none  had  in  them  a  lustre  half 
so  strange.  She  gave  herself  to  the  cadence  of  the 
music;  she  waltzed  gayly  with  the  best  of  the  men 
waltzers;  she  went  on  turning  and  swaying  in  a  very 
ecstasy  of  joy. 

Or  was  it  joy  ?  What  if  this  feverish  activity  were 
only  meant  to  oppose  some  heart-clutching  dread? 
At  times,  indeed,  a  strong  shudder  passed  over  her,  for 
through  all  this  Christmas  revel  and  dancing  frolic 
danced  also  her  defiance  of  a  depressing  possibility. 


60  Wine  o    the  Winds 

If  Harry  North  should  never  again  be  the  one  to 
hold  her  in  his  arms — well,  what  of  that?  She 
went  on  dancing  as  those  do  who  betray  a  giddiness 
of  soul  which  discreeter  years  would  hide.  It  was  a 
manner  of  challenging  self-assertion,  as  who  would 
say: 

"I  can  and  will  be  happy.  I  need  not  be  crushed 
by  useless  yearning.  If  he  does  not  come  to  me,  if 
he  is  never  to  come,  why,  what  of  that?  If  he 
chooses  to  stay  away,  let  him.  I  don't  care,  I  don't 
care,  I  don't  care!" 

So,  as  the  music  thrilled,  and  the  floor  palpitated, 
none  of  those  here  making  festival  seemed  gayer  than 
she;  none  had  cheeks  more  warmly  flushed  or  eyes 
more  wondrously  aglow. 

Yet  afterward,  on  the  way  home,  no  trace  remained 
of  all  this  exaltation  nervously  forced.  It  had  done 
more  than  die  out;  it  had  left  her  with  an  immense 
fatigue,  an  aching  emptiness,  and  a  poignant  longing 
for  the  one  she  had  been  striving  so  assiduously  to 
forget. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  Glad  Surprise 

MARBLE  time  had  come.  Already  the  Red 
Store  was  offering  a  window  display  of 
potties,  glassies,  and  commies,  and  in  this 
green-and-gold  season  of  spring  no  boy  in  Tecon  City 
had  been  earlier  than  Arthur  to  make  a  purchase,  so 
that  now  his  pockets  rattled  with  clickety  sounds 
wherever  he  went. 

One  day  while  he  was  trying  to  introduce  to  some 
Indian  boys  the  marble  games  he  knew,  his  little 
brother  went  off  to  play  with  the  clouds  that  kept  on 
passing  up  there,  far,  far  up  against  the  blue  sky. 
Connie  fancied  that  they  were  following  him.  If  he 
went  to  the  right  he  would  see  them,  the  whole 
fluffy  flock,  going  also  to  the  right;  if  he  stood  still 
he  felt  that  they,  likewise,  had  stopped. 

All  at  once  Connie  grew  conscious  that  at  the  edge 
of  the  woods  a  little  brown  boy,  a  bit  smaller  than 
himself,  stood  looking  at  him.  The  child  from  the 
cabin  went  nearer  by  a  few  steps,  then  stopped.  For 
some  moments  these  two  wee  men  did  nothing  but 
regard  each  other  very  solemnly. 

Holding  a  bow  and  some  blunt-headed  arrows,  the 
child  from  the  woods  wore  his  black  hair  in  two  tight 
braids,  and  a  bit  of  white  shell  adorned  each  ear,  and 
fringe  ornamented  the  sleeves  of  his  doeskin  shirt. 

61 


61  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Did  he  have  any  pockets?  Connie  at  once  put  his 
hands  into  the  side  pouches  of  his  little  breeches, 
thus  plainly  demonstrating  that  he,  at  least,  had 
pockets.  He  even  turned  them  wrong  side  out,  to 
emphasize  the  distinction. 

The  expression  of  the  little  brown  boy  did  not 
change;  he  only  kept  on  looking. 

Little  brother,  having  emptied  his  pockets,  made  a 
display  of  their  contents,  pouring  some  small  articles 
from  one  hand  into  the  other.  He  had  a  brass  tack, 
a  stub  of  slate  pencil,  some  string,  a  spool,  a  glass 
button,  and  a  bit  of  beeswax,  good  to  chew.  The 
tack  and  the  button  he  enticingly  held  out,  and  the 
little  brown  boy  received  them,  but  did  not  smile  or 
say  anything. 

What  most  impressed  Connie,  in  regard  to  this  un 
communicative  stranger,  were  the  pretty  moccasins, 
with  their  toes  brightened  with  some  kind  of  red 
embroidery  made  of  coloured  porcupine  quills. 

Little  brother  bent  down,  touched  the  bright 
needlework  with  a  finger,  and  then  looked  up, 
smiling.  Shyly  and  timorously,  the  stranger  smiled 
a  little,  too;  and  immediately  Connie  thought  of 
something  else.  He  darted  away  and  came  sky 
larking  back;  but  apparently  the  serious  stranger  did 
not  know  that  the  little  white  boy  was  expecting  to 
be  chased.  All  at  once,  when  Connie  looked  behind 
to  see  if  he  were  being  followed,  he  halted  in  aston 
ishment.  The  little  brown  boy  was  no  longer  there. 
He  had  dissolved  into  the  green  hush  of  the  woods. 

Connie  felt  duped.  Having  accepted  the  fine 
present,  the  tack  and  the  button,  a  stranger  should 
not  behave  in  this  fashion.  A  mean  trick! 


A  Glad  Surprise  63 

Such  a  sense  of  injury  was  the  gift-giver's  that 
presently,  when  the  little  brown  fellow  came  skipping 
forth  from  a  leafy  covert,  the  white  child  would  only 
sulk  and  turn  aside. 

The  boy  of  the  woods  had  the  quiet  of  a  cat.  His 
bow  and  arrows  having  been  hidden  away,  he  now 
appeared  with  some  Indian  dainties  in  his  hand. 
Probably  they  were  wild  cherries,  pounded  into  a 
cake  with  buffalo  tallow.  He  also  had  some  sugar 
made  from  the  sap  of  the  box  elder  tree;  for  children 
of  the  Omaha  tribe  are  given  these  luxuries  from  time 
to  time,  as  a  special  treat. 

With  a  pretty  grace,  shy  as  a  fawn,  the  brown  child 
advanced,  holding  out  his  hand  in  friendly  offering. 
But  Connie  would  have  none  of  the  candies.  He 
peevishly  struck  the  little  brown  hand,  and  marched 
away. 

But  was  not  pleased  with  himself.  He  knew  he 
had  behaved  badly;  he  even  had  the  impulse  to  turn 
back  and  show  regret,  and  try  to  make  things  right. 
With  a  choking  in  his  throat  he  really  did  look  back. 
Only  now  it  was  too  late.  There  was  nothing. 
Once  again  the  little  brown  boy  had  vanished. 

Connie  tramped  up  the  hill,  very  angry  with  him 
self,  crying  and  blowing  his  nose.  He  even  violated 
the  rules  for  blowing  your  nose.  He  did  not  use  his 
handkerchief,  but  put  his  thumb  against  a  nostril 
in  the  fashion  which  the  bull  whackers  have.  It  was 
not  nice  to  do  so;  it  was  naughty;  and  that  is  why 
little  brother  did  it.  He  wanted  to  be  naughty.  He 
wanted  to  do  the  worst  kind  of  badness  that  anybody 
can  do. 

And  he  continued  to  cry.     He  cried  all  the  way 


64  Wine  o    the  Winds 

along,  and  the  running  of  his  tears  blurred  everything, 
made  everything  seem  to  swim. 

Coming  into  the  path,  with  his  eyes  all  blinded 
from  their  drench  of  tears,  he  suddenly  gave  himself 
an  unexpected  bump.  A  pair  of  legs  had  come  in 
front  of  him.  Then  he  felt  himself  caught  off  the 
ground,  he  heard  comforting  words,  he  heard  a  grave 
and  masculine  voice  kindly  saying: 

"There,  there,  Connie!  What  is  it?  Have  you 
hurt  yourself?" 

Once  the  child  had  been  carried  up  the  hill,  to  the 
cabin,  the  man  paused  at  the  threshold;  and  although 
the  door  stood  open,  he  did  not  enter.  Only  the 
warm  sunshine  entered.  It  streamed  aslant,  form 
ing  a  sharp-cut  rectangle  on  the  floor. 

Florence,  bending  over  the  ironing  board,  did  not 
look  up.  She  was  carefully  pressing  something  from 
which  little  wavering  wisps  of  vapour  rose.  The 
sampler,  that  tedious  piece  of  needlework  done  in 
gay  colours,  had  at  last  been  finished.  Yes,  finished 
— an  artistic  performance  finally  accomplished  and 
now  having  the  wrinkles  taken  out  of  it. 

Connie,  who  had  been  put  down  on  the  doorstep, 
began  to  prance  and  dance.  Tears  were  forgotten. 
He  was  all  glee  and  excitement. 

"Look,  Floy!  Look-ee!  See  who's  come.  It's 
Dockey.  He  picked  me  up,  Dockey  did.  He 
carried  me." 

"Oh!"  Florence  could  speak  no  more  than  that. 
The  flatiron  clanked  down  upon  its  horseshoe  holder. 

Doctor  North  went  up  to  the  little  girl  at  once, 
and  between  his  palms  he  pressed  her  smooth  face, 
with  cheeks  all  rosily  pinked  with  the  heat  of  the 


A  Glad  Surprise  65 

ironing.  He  did  not  say  anything;  but  she  knew, 
surely,  what  his  eyes  were  saying;  for  often  and  often 
he  had  looked  at  her  like  that,  sometimes  telling  her, 
"You  have  the  eyes  of  your  Aunt  Alice."  Florence 
had  always  known,  somehow,  that  she  was  ever  a 
greater  favourite  with  the  young  doctor  than  her  two 
brothers. 

Now,  when  he  started  to  say  something,  he  had  to 
stop  and  clear  his  voice.  "Some  day,"  he  said, 
"you  are  going  to  be  just  such  another  woman  as 
your  Aunt  Al.  And  where  is  she,  your  Aunt  Alice?" 

Too  excited  to  answer  rationally,  the  little  girl 
uttered  the  first  thing,  anything  at  all,  that  she  could 
think  of  saying.  "I  didn't  know  it  was  you.  I  was 

pressing  this — this And  there  you  were.  It's 

a  sampler.  It's  for  Doctor  Malcolm's  birthday.  It 

got  wrinkled,  and  I Now,  now,  Connie,  your 

thumb!" 

Blushing  with  shame,  the  little  boy  jerked  his 
thumb  out  of  his  mouth;  for  big  boys  do  not  suck 
thumbs.  Only  babies  do.  With  a  plop!  the  thumb 
came  forth,  as  a  cork  from  a  bottle.  The  child 
looked  up;  he  dug  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  very 
like  a  man. 

"See,  I  got  'em!"  he  announced  with  head-wagging 
seriousness.  "Pockets!  And  maybe,  some  day, 
you  are  going  to  get  me  boots,  the  same  as  Arthur 
has." 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,  perhaps  I  am.  .Boots, 
eh?  Impossible  to  get  along  without  boots." 

Still  resenting  his  sister's  chiding  about  the  thumb, 
Connie  boasted  triumphantly: 

"I  saw  him  first.     He  carried  me." 


66  Wine  o   the  Winds 

Doctor  North  did  not  smile  very  well.  His  mouth 
twitched  too  much.  It  twitched  again  as  he  quietly 
inquired: 

"Your  Aunt  Alice — will  she  be  here  soon?" 

"If,"  said  Florence,  skipping  gayly  to  the  window, 

"if  you  look  down  there,  by  the  river No,  you 

can't  see  her.  She's  below  the  bank,  she's  rinsing 
the  clothes.  Say,  I  tell  you :  let's  go  down,  all  of  us 
— let's  go  down  there,  and  s 'prise  her." 

"No,  my  dear,  that  would  scarcely  be  the  thing. 
Run,  Florence.  Go  to  her.  Tell  her,  please,  that 
somebody  has  come.  Make  her  guess.  That's  the 
best  way." 

Florence  whisked  out  of  the  house,  running  like  a 
mad  thing,  while  Doctor  North  stood  at  the  window, 
looking  eagerly  after  her.  As  he  waited,  tingling 
all  over  with  the  abashed  eagerness  of  lovers,  he  grew 
aware  of  a  fragrance,  thin  and  warm  and  delicate; 
for  creamy  blossoms,  the  wild  cherry  sweetly  in 
flower,  pendently  languished  over  the  rim  of  a  blue 
pitcher,  an  old  delft  pitcher,  well  remembered. 

"I,"  said  Connie,  "I  helped  to  pick  the  flowers." 

"Did  you,  now?"  Doctor  North  went  on  looking 
at  that  marvel  of  a  little  pathway,  while  the  excite 
ment  of  high-keyed  anticipation  showed  itself  in  his 
rapid  breathing. 

As  the  little  girl,  meanwhile,  skipped  along  the 
winding  trail  down  to  the  river,  her  feet  fairly  danced, 
her  arms  danced,  too;  her  laughing  eyes  danced  best 
of  all. 

Florence  thought  she  would  only  have  to  pant  out 
the  words,  "He's  come,"  and  then  Aunt  Al  would 
drop  everything.  She  would  drop  everything,  and 


A  Glad  Surprise  67 

hurry  right  away  up  the  slope,  not  even  taking  time 
to  wipe  her  wet  hands  and  arms. 

But  no,  that  was  not,  after  all,  the  effect  of  the 
news.  With  unnatural  coolness  the  announcement 
was  received.  Alice  went  on  wringing  out  a  garment. 
She  was  very  slow,  very  calm.  But  her  face  was 
white.  Her  hands,  all  pink  and  puckered  from  being 
in  the  water  so  long,  were  screwing  into  a  hard  twist 
some  kind  of  white  cloth.  It  dripped,  and  the 
drippings  blazed  in  the  sun  in  a  fall  of  rainbow  fire- 
beads. 

Alice  said:  "He's  come,  then— really  ?"  She 
thwacked  the  clean  log  with  the  garment,  in  order  to 
untwist  the  cloth,  before  tossing  it  into  the  basket. 
Next  she  stood  up.  "How  does  he  look?"  she  asked. 
After  towelling  her  hands  and  arms  with  her  apron, 
she  put  her  palms  at  her  back,  as  if  it  ached  a  little 

from    bending    over.     "Does    he    look    well? 

Just  came,  did  he? My  hair/'  she  added  at 

once,  touching  it  about  the  temples,  "is  it  all  mussed 
up?     Is  he,  the  doctor — has  he  turned  gray?" 

Florence  could  not  tell.  She  only  knew  that  he 
had  come.  Yes,  just  come.  He  was  up  there, 
right  up  there  at  the  house,  and  waiting. 

Alice  smoothed  and  patted  her  coppery  ringlets, 
trying  to  examine  the  blurred  reflection  of  her  face 
in  a  pool.  "The  washing,"  she  said,  "could  have 
been  finished  to-morrow.  I  thought  of  letting  it  go. 
I  meant  to  change  my  dress — the  blue  delaine.  He 
likes  blue.  His  favourite  colour.  I  remember  the 
time  he  told  me  so.  One  night,  on  the  way  home 

from  Singing  School Is  he  much  changed?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  crumpled  skirt,  and  shook 


68  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

her  head.     "  Dear  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "  this  shabby, 
faded,  worn  old  thing!" 

Into  her  face  had  come  a  warm  and  summery  look, 
so  that  Florence  marvelled  at  it,  as  who  would  say: 
"Oh,  the  lovely  smile!"  The  little  girl  could 
scarcely  believe  in  this  amazing  change.  For  one  of 
the  queer  facts  about  Alice  Arden  was  this:  she  was 
the  whole  of  two  years  past  twenty — that  shocking 
old  age — and  yet  it  had  been  possible  for  her  to  grow 
suddenly  very  young.  When  she  started  up  the  hill 
she  walked  lightly  and  easily;  she  seemed  hardly  to 
touch  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Doubtful  Joy 

IT  IS  written  in  the  play  that  love  goes  toward 
love  like  schoolboys  from  their  books;  and  surely 
when  lovers  meet  after  doubts  and  racking 
anxieties,  and  more  than  a  year  of  separation,  the 
meeting  should  be  more  than  joyous.  But  if  a  girl 
has  been  kept  waiting  over  long  for  such  a  moment, 
what  then  ?  And  if  her  bright  vision  of  a  future  full 
of  promise  has  been  shadowed,  almost  to  extinction, 
by  the  gloom  of  an  ignoble  circumstance  blotting 
the  past,  how  is  she  to  feel  a  soaring  exaltation  of 
mood? 

North  observed  her  as  she  came.  He  watched  for 
the  deft  and  prim  little  grace  with  which  she  used  to 
raise  her  dress  in  front  as  she  mounted  a  doorstep. 
How  many  times  he  had  seen  her  do  that,  as  she 
started  upstairs!  and  always  with  her  ringers  curv 
ing  in  a  way  that  was  like  the  way  of  nobody  else. 
Each  small  gesture  and  every  movement  of  her  head 
had  endeared  itself  to  him  as  quaintly  individual, 
precise,  and  charming  with  the  kind  of  pretty  art- 
lessness  that  children  are  likely  to  have. 

She  walked  in  the  manner  familiar  to  him;  erect, 
with  raised  chin;  but  he  was  distinctly  surprised  that 
she  should  seem  taller  than  formerly  and  a  bit  an 
gular,  not  so  lithe,  nor  so  graceful.  And  though  she 

69 


70  Wine  o    the  Winds 

smiled,  what  a  different  smile  it  was!  The  lips,  to  be 
sure,  still  had  the  wine  of  youth  to  redden  them;  but 
what  had  gone  with  their  flexible  winsomeness,  that 
blithe  look  which  had  impelled  him  to  give  the  mouth 
of  Winnie  Barton  such  particular  notice? 

Heavily  self-conscious,  North  greeted  Alice,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  overdoing  the  joyousness 
which  he  tried  to  feel  but  couldn't.  He  kissed  her, 
too;  he  brought  himself  to  that.  But  why  do  such  a 
thing?  He  actually  asked  himself,  "Why?"  He 
had  prepared  himself  not  to  do  it;  and  now,  all  the 
same,  it  was  done.  The  strange  thing  was  that  once 
the  two  had  kissed,  they  continued  to  embrace, 
cleaving  together  not  as  lovers  do,  but  like  little 
children  lost  in  the  frightful  dark,  and  desperately 
trying  to  comfort  each  other. 

How  embarrassing,  besides,  to  feel  that  this  situa 
tion  had  somehow  transferred  itself  into  that  other 
scene,  when  he  had  said  farewell  to  Alice!  Then, 
as  now,  he  felt  what  she  did  not  speak  as  plainly  as 
if  it  had  been  spoken! 

"If  only  you  could  have  been  induced  to  stop  your 
needless,  unprofessional,  strength-sapping  habit  of 
card-playing  fellowship  with  racy  youths  of  the 
town!" 

They  drank,  those  young  men;  they  went  on 
sprees.  Even  if  true  that  they  had  won  for  themselves 
more  notoriety  than  they  deserved,  that  fact  could 
not  eliminate  what  had  happened.  Life,  certainly, 
could  not  be  restored  to  Mrs.  Joseph  Wheeler,  nor 
to  the  child  which  should  have  been  born  to 
her.  At  the  most  critical  moment,  as  young 
Doctor  North  had  confessed,  "everything  went 


Doubtful  Joy  71 

black/'  To  this  day,  even  now  as  he  held  Alice 
Arden  in  his  arms,  the  world  could  not  regain  its 
brightness  for  him. 

All  through  the  brief  visit,  the  two  were  like 
strangers  who  must  work  hard  at  the  business  of 
getting  acquainted.  They  even  groped  for  some 
thing  to  talk  about.  They  used  Victor  for  con 
versational  purposes. 

In  Omaha,  was  he?  And  thinking  of  settling  on  a 
homestead?  Good!  A  very  good  idea;  for  event 
ually  this  farming  country  would  be  developed  and 
grow  extremely  valuable. 

They  held  to  this  topic.  They  spoke,  also,  of  what 
crops  could  best  be  grown  in  the  new  country. 
Potatoes  and  hay  came  in  for  a  liberal  amount  of 
discussion.  Also  the  railroad.  President  Lincoln 
favoured  it.  Government  support  of  the  project 
had  been  voted  by  Congress,  so  that  the  gigantic 
undertaking,  a  line  from  the  Missouri  River  across 
the  Great  Plains  and  mountains,  clear  to  the  western 
coast,  was  now  positively  assured. 

"Surveying  parties,"  the  visitor  added,  "are  al 
ready  in  the  field.  I  have  had  it  in  mind  to  join 
one  of  them.  My  application  is  filed.  Men  are 
needed  for  the  work.  And  that  sort  of  activity,  with 
a  tang  of  adventure  in  it,  might  be  something,  I 
thought,  to  interest  me." 

Rather  faintly  Alice  inquired: 

"California,  then,  didn't  interest  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  that.  Only  Vic,  the  same  as  my 
self,  never  got  over  feeling  unsettled,  restless,  dis 
satisfied.  Abundant  business  chances,  but  no,  he 
didn't  care  for  them.  Wanted  to  come  East." 


72  Wine  o    the  Winds 

"And  you?"  The  girl  had  striven,  with  fair  suc 
cess,  to  make  her  question  sound  casual. 

"Oh,  I — of  course — did  not  mind  coming  as  far 
East  as  the  Missouri.  Omaha  would  be  my  destina 
tion.  For  awhile,  in  California,  I  assisted  a  county 
surveyor.  Plenty  of  field  work.  Put  in  my  spare 
time  with  the  study  of  civil  engineering.  Reached 
Omaha  with  a  letter  introducing  me  to  the  chief  of 
the  Union  Pacific  surveys." 

North  was  thinking,  as  he  looked  at  her: 

"  If  she  sends  the  children  away,  then  what  ?  Then 
I  shall  tell  her,  maybe,  that  I  could  never  get  her  out 
of  my  mind.  I  tried  to;  I  wanted  to;  and  yet,  some 
how — and  maybe  I  could  have  joined  a  railway  sur 
veying  party  as  well  on  the  Pacific  Coast  as  on  the 
Missouri  River." 

Until  this  interview  with  Alice  Arden  he  would  not 
have  believed  that  her  influence  had  much  to  do  with 
drawing  him  hitherward.  Had  he  expected  to  see 
her  again?  He  had  not.  And  yet  that  anticipation, 
that  vague  hope  must  have  stuck  in  his  heart. 

"In  Omaha,"  North  went  on,  "I've  been  on  the 
waiting  list.  For  some  time  the  chief  engineer  had 
nothing  to  offer.  Meanwhile,  we  have  been  debating, 
Victor  and  I,  the  advisability  of  taking  a  homestead. 
Rich  land  in  this  Elkhorn  Valley,  good  claims,  not 
far  from  here,  are  to  be  had.  Aren't  they?" 

His  face  had  reddened.  He  grew  more  and  more 
self-conscious.  It  went  so  far  with  him  that  presently, 
when  Florence  left  for  the  post-office,  taking  little 
brother  with  her,  Harry  North  could  do  no  better 
for  some  time  than  merely  utter  a  few  desul 
tory  remarks.  Then  he  stopped  talking.  A  dull 


T)oubtful  Joy  73 

silence  lengthened  to  an  interval  awkwardly  un 
comfortable. 

Presently  the  visitor  decided  to  inquire  about  the 
knitting  Alice  had  taken  up.  What  was  it? — a 
stocking?  A  stupid  question!  He  did  not  ask  it. 
Finally  he  said: 

"Do  you  know  what?  I  had  thought  never  to  see 
you  again.  But  here  now,  after  all— —  Only  I 
couldn't,  at  first,  believe  it  when  Vic  said  you  were 

here.  Then,  believing  it Oh,  the  fight  I  had 

with  myself  not  to  rush  here  at  once!  You  were 
here,  I  was  there  in  Omaha.  Both  of  us  in  the  same 
county.  Incredible!  And  I  did  not  go  away.  Was 
accepted  for  service  in  the  railway  engineering  corps. 
The  awaited  opportunity  had  come.  But  still  I  did 
not  take  it.  Went  on  staying  there  in  Omaha. 
Thought  I  wouldn't;  didn't  intend  to,  but — stayed. 
Finally  came.  Impossible  not  to  come." 

"Sometimes,"  Alice  began,  and  with  a  hairpin 
strove  determinedly  to  pick  up  a  dropped  stitch, 
"sometimes  I  almost  gave  up." 

"Gave  up?" 

"Yes.  There  was  so  little,  Hal,  to  let  me  go  on 
hoping." 

It  was  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  passion  throbbed 
in  his  voice.  The  ardour,  the  old  intensity,  a  kind  of 
fierce  joy  could  not  be  driven  from  his  gray  eyes  or 
from  his  face,  no  matter  how  sternly  he  might  de 
clare: 

"Better  for  you,  my  dear,  if  you  hadn't  hoped. 
Better — much  better  if  I  could  have  stuck  to  my 
purpose  never  to  see  you  again!" 

He  hardly  knew  how  it  happened;  but  all  at  once 


74  Wine  o    the  Winds 

he  found  himself  clasping  her  close.  She  had  been 
caught  up  out  of  her  chair,  and  she  clung  to  him, 
trembling.  But  when  she  spoke,  her  hushed  and 
deliberate  voice  remained  absolutely  firm. 

"If  I  had  never  seen  you  again,"  she  was  saying, 
"I  should,  at  least,  have  gone  on  thanking  God,  all 
my  days,  that  I  had  known  and  loved  you." 

In  the  later  moments  of  this  reuniting  Harry  North 
tried  to  tell  of  the  letter  he  had  written,  of  how  he  had 
been  temporarily  released  from  the  heart-searchings, 
and  how  the  reckless  impulse  to  write  had  been 
roused  in  him  by  the  prattling  nonsense  of  a  queer 
sort  of  girl,  Winifred  Barton  by  name. 

"Who  would  have  dreamed,"  he  suddenly  ex 
claimed,  "that  you  would  be  coming  off  out  here! 
You,  with  the  children!" 

She  answered  in  self-depreciation: 

"Captain  and  Mrs.  Harris  were  coming.  They 
wanted  us  along.  They  urged  me,  especially  Mrs. 
Harris." 

"You  would  be  glad  to  get  away.  Of  course! 
For  people,  back  there,  would  pity  you,  and  you 
could  never  stand  it  to  be  pitied." 

"That's  it— partly,"  she  agreed.  "But,  Hal, 
can't  you  see  what  really  brought  me? — the  main 
thing?  Oh,  you  must  know,  surely,  that  it  would 
only  be  the  hope  of  such  a  day  as  this  that  could 
give  me  the  courage  to  come!" 

For  the  moment  a  kind  of  solemn  joy  came  to 
Harry  North,  but  when  he  went  away,  after  dinner, 
it  was  with  a  certain  sense  of  relief.  He  was  humbled, 
too;  for  holding  her  so  high  above  him,  he  could  not 
have  the  audacity  to  believe  that  her  level  would  ever 


Doubtful  Joy  75 

be  attainable  by  him.  He  could  only  say  to  himself, 
as  he  left  the  house: 

"Well,  this  much  is  over." 

In  going  down  the  hill  he  glanced  back.  Her  voice 
was  not  merely  subdued,  but  even  a  little  timorous, 
as  she  said: 

"To-morrow,  then." 

"Yes,  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  and  waved  his 
hat.  "Well  be  here— depend  on  it— be  here  to 
morrow,  Vic  and  I." 


PART  III 
SHADOWS 


CHAPTER  I 

Called  for  Consultation 

ON  THE  western  side  of  the  Elkhorn  River 
the  cabin  of  the  Norths  spanned  the  section 
line;  and  thus,  with  one  house  on  the  two 
homesteads,  they  were  establishing  residence  on  their 
government  land  in  a  manner  satisfactory  to  the 
requirements  of  the  preemption  laws. 

Not  exactly  pleasant,  but  easily  bearable  this  fra 
ternal  partnership  might  have  been,  if  only  Victor 
had  not  come  to  realize  that  what  chiefly  depressed 
him  was  less  a  toilsome  existence  than  it  was  his 
jealous  concern  for  someone  else. 

Jealous?  And  why  be  jealous?  Could  Alice 
ever  mean  anything  so  very  special  to  his  life?  He 
had  again  resigned  himself,  hadn't  he?  to  the  neces 
sity  of  being  a  brother-in-law. 

He  was  glad,  all  the  same — extravagantly  so — 
that  her  shattered  romance  had  not  yet  been  pieced  to 
gether.  The  hope  was  even  his,  strive  as  he  would  to 
thrust  it  from  him,  that  the  sun  might  never  rise  on 
the  wedding  day  of  Alice  Arden  and  Dr.  Harry  North. 

Eventually  the  notion  came  to  the  elder  brother 
that  it  must  be  a  painful  embarrassment  for  her  to 
see  his  pity  and  his  deep  understanding  of  all  she  had 
been  through.  He  feared,  besides,  that  his  well 
wishing  for  her  might  presently  ripen  once  again  into 

79 


8o  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

the  self-interest  he  had  struggled  so  zealously  to  weed 
out  of  his  heart. 

Love?  Was  it  that?  He  tried  to  keep  on  denying 
the  thing  it  was,  yet  despite  all  wilful  negation  of  what 
was  in  his  heart,  there  it  remained.  Tyrannously  it 
had  come  back  to  him,  and  must  abide  with  him, 
obstinately  defying  his  every  effort  to  drive  it  out. 

Well,  let  it  stay.  Give  it  welcome.  Modest,  dis 
creet,  humble,  and  without  hope,  let  it  be  the  kind  of 
love  which  expresses  itself  in  service.  The  lover  of  her 
choosing  he  had  safely  brought  back  to  her.  In  that, 
at  least,  he  had  been  magnanimous.  It  was  service. 

Or  was  it?  What  good  might  accrue?  Had  he 
helped  or  only  hindered?  Instead  of  good,  the  thing 
he  had  accomplished  might  turn  out  no  better  than 
bad — a  stupid  and  mischievous  meddling! 

While  at  his  toil  in  the  field  it  was  nothing  unusual 
for  Victor  North  thus  to  assault  himself  with  in 
surgent  questionings.  One  day,  giving  no  heed  to 
the  reins  looped  about  his  body,  he  had  grown  un 
mindful  of  the  times  when  the  mule  team  went  awry, 
for  he  was  guiding  the  corn-cultivator  in  a  manner 
carelessly  automatic. 

Ahead  of  him  the  furrows  suddenly  burst  into  a 
flurry  of  dark  wings,  black-blue  and  glossy — a  great 
raucous  chorus  of  scolding  crows  which  here  had  been 
making  festival  by  pulling  up  the  tender  plants,  in 
order  to  get  at  the  soft  kernels  of  germinated  seed 
still  clinging  to  the  roots.  The  worker  ignored  these 
bird-vandals  and  their  saucy  ways;  he  seemed  utterly 
unconscious  of  their  cawing  perturbation  as  they 
circled  in  a  wide  sweep,  to  settle  down  once  again  to 
their  impudent  robberies. 


Called  for  Consultation  81 

At  the  end  of  the  corn  row  the  ear-wagging  work- 
animals  came  to  a  halt,  and  there  grazed  avidly, 
biting  off  the  long  grass  with  brisk  and  tearing 
sounds,  while  the  shadow  of  Victor's  body,  lying  like 
a  dark  mantle  close  about  his  dusty  boots,  indicated 
the  noon  hour. 

Some  time  elapsed  before  he  grew  aware  that  a 
resonant  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  field,  in 
the  direction  of  the  cabin,  was  distinctly  calling  him: 
the  dinner  summons  of  his  brother. 

"All  right,  all  right!  Coming!"  answered  the  man, 
still  standing  at  the  grassy  verge  of  the  ploughed 
ground,  where  three  milkweeds,  with  tops  bitten  off, 
were  now  exuding  a  white  sap.  Victor  hooked  up 
the  sides  of  the  cultivator,  its  polished  shovels 
gleaming  like  concave  mirrors. 

While  drawing  near  the  cabin,  after  the  mules  had 
been  watered,  stalled,  and  fed,  he  scented  the  warm 
aroma  of  steaming  coffee.  His  brother  was  also  broil 
ing  a  venison  steak;  but  the  meal,  a  very  good  meal, 
seemed  like  forage  rather  than  cooked  food. 

The  Norths  talked  little.  The  far-away  look  in 
Victor's  face,  as  he  emptied  plate  and  tin  cup,  clearly 
indicated  that  he  had  gone  into  a  brown  study.  His 
brother,  having  something  special  to  say,  waited 
meanwhile  for  attention,  and  presently  went  to  the 
open  door,  there  to  gaze  absently  through  the  heat 
quiver  toward  the  silver  rim  of  the  river. 

"Say,  Vic." 

"Well?" 

"There's  a  telegram.  This  morning — a  mes- 
sage " 

Neither  of  the  men  looked  at  the  other. 


82  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

"Telegram?"  Victor  questioned. 

Harry  North  held  forth  the  dispatch,  and  then 
brought  from  the  clock-shelf  a  letter  containing  a 
second  letter.  "You  see,"  he  added,  "Winifred's 
telegram  confirms  the  report  which  old  Rollins  had 
some  one  write  for  him.  You  can  see  he  has  been 
as  delicate  as  possible  in  giving  her  the  news: 

"Now,  Win,  I  don't  want  to  tell  it  scarey;  but  you 
know  your  own  self  that  stampedes  is  awful  dangersome." 

The  young  man  paused  in  his  reading  of  the  com 
munication  to  answer  the  inquiring  look  in  his 
brother's  face.  Having  said,  "Yes,  she's  with  her 
father.  Arrived  last  week,  I  believe,"  he  went  on 
with  the  Rollins  letter: 

"Down  about  Pawnee  Fork  is  where  we  had  the  bobble. 
To  get  smashed  up  a  lot  and  stick  in  the  saddle  six  months 
afterwards  keeps  a  man  from  feeling  just  right.  We  leave 
your  pappy  here  at  Fort  Kearney,  for  the  post  surgeon  to 
fix  him  up.  The  rest  of  us  will  drift  on  with  the  cattle  to 
Denver.  If  you  come  out  to  Kearney  you  better  not  let 
him  know  where  you  got  this  news.  It  would  hist  his 
temper  too  much.  But  I  figure  you  ought  to  know  that 
he  has  got  a  bad  hip  joint,  and  a  bad  shoulder,  and  some 
tolerable  bad  language." 

Smiling  a  little,  Harry  North  finished  the  report  of 
the  old  cowman.  And  Victor  ventured  the  specula 
tion:  "A  bit  of  a  joke,  that  last.  It's  put  in,  I 
suppose,  so  that  Winifred  wouldn't  feel  he  has  been 
telling  it  'scarey.'  Well,  have  you  answered  her 
telegram?  Shall  you  go  to  Fort  Kearney?" 


Called  for  Consultation  83 

Should   he?    Apparently   Harry   North   did   not 

know  what  he  ought  to  do. 

After  a  long  pause  Victor  spoke  again: 
"Anxious,  and  really  urgent,  isn't  she?"     He  read 

the  telegram  aloud. 

"You  must  come  for  consultation.  Please  do.  My 
father  has  such  faith  in  what  you  can  do  for  him." 

"Faith!"  Harry  North  repeated.  "How  have 
faith?  What  can  he  know  about  me  as  a  surgeon?" 

"It  may  be,"  Victor  suggested,  "that  he's  clutch 
ing  at  straws.  Old  Rollins,  you  notice,  declared 
him  to  be  in  'bad  shape,'  and  to  be  'smashed  up  a 
lot.'  Serious,  of  course.  And  then  riding  for  six 
months  after  being  so  injured!" 

Once  more  Harry  North  read  the  phrase  of  the 
telegram:  "'My  father  has  such  faith.'  Well," 
he  went  on,  after  expelling  a  deep  breath,  "if  Alice 
thinks  I  had  better  go.  .  .  ." 

In  the  circumstances  it  might  not  have  been  at  all 
unreasonable  if  she  had  cared  very  little  for  this  pro 
fessional  opportunity.  For  the  injured  man  had  a 
daughter,  and  what  an  uncomfortable  deal  Alice 
Arden  had  been  hearing  about  that  daughter!  Even 
though  one  is  far  from  being  a  "cockleburr,"  as  the 
Indians  call  a  jealous  woman,  one  may  still  have  a 
feminine  disposition  quick  to  take  alarm.  Particu 
larly  so  if  a  young  man  known  to  be  notoriously  a 
bad  correspondent  should  have  developed  a  certain 
zest  for  letter  writing. 

Having  seen  the  importunate  telegram  from  Wini 
fred  Barton,  it  would  not  have  been  strange  if  Alice 
had  questioned  within  herself  whether  she  ought  to 


84  Wine  o    the  Winds 

deepen  Hal's  sympathetic  regard  for  one  reported 
to  be  glowingly  beautiful,  and  odd,  and  wild,  and 
full  of  capricious  charms.  But  if  you  are  a  pioneer 
you  are  of  those  who  live  adventurously.  Alice 
dared  take  risks,  even  as  she  had  dared  the  first 
great  risk  of  moving  West  with  three  orphaned 
children.  So  she  said  to  Harry  North: 

"Just  the  thing!  You  must  go,  by  all  means. 
Old  Doctor  Malcolm,  back  home,  will  be  so  glad  to 
hear  that  youVe  taken  up  the  practice  of  medicine!" 

Could  it  have  been  possible  to  mend  a  little  this 
comment  of  hers,  especially  to  eliminate  the  last  of 
it,  all  might  have  been  well.  But  in  her  eagerness  to 
encourage  Harry  North  she  had  accomplished  quite 
the  reverse.  That  reference  to  the  old  life,  "back 
home,"  had  done  the  mischief.  By  the  paling  of  his 
lips  Alice  saw  that  the  grim  spectre  of  his  ignoble 
past  had  once  more  been  miserably  evoked. 

He  spoke  quietly,  with  bowed  head: 

"No,  after  all,  I  mustn't  go.  How  could  I  have 
the  cheek  to  think  of  going?  I,  who  have  spoiled 
my  right  to  practise  medicine!" 

But  the  one-time  doctor  did  write  a  letter.  In  the 
life  history  of  Alice  Arden,  and  in  his  own,  it  was  to 
be  a  momentous  letter;  and  yet  neither  of  them  could 
foresee  what  circumstances  would  result  from  this 
that  he  wrote  to  Winifred  Barton: 

For  me  to  deny  myself  the  privilege  of  going  to  your 
father  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  do.  You  are  to  believe 
that  I  am  more  grateful  for  his  faith  in  me  than  he,  or  you, 
will  ever  be  likely  to  guess.  But  I  must  not,  I  cannot  go. 
It  is  now  impossible,  since  I  no  longer  belong  to  the  pro 
fession  which  once  was  mine — and  very  proudly  mine. 


CHAPTER  II 

"What  Does  He  See  in  Her?" 

TECON  CITY  is  taking  on  a  fine  urban  air  of 
elegance.     The    Court    House,    to    be    sure, 
still  remains  a  square  space,  marked  in  red, 
on  the  plat  of  the  Town-site  Company.     The  Public 
School,  likewise,  is  a  square  space,  marked  in  red. 
You  are  to  understand,  however,  that  one  dwelling 
of  the  settlement  has  acquired  the  distinction  of  an 
exclusive  dooryard  neatly  enclosed  by  a  fence  of 
white  palings. 

For  all  this  municipal  splendour  it  is  still  to  be 
granted  that  no  resident  of  the  village  could  display 
anything  so  stylish  as  a  French  parasol  brilliantly 
flame-coloured  and  in  pattern  exactly  like  those  one 
sees  in  the  fashion  plates  of  Godey's  Lady 's  Book. 
Neither  can  it  be  said  that  any  girl  of  this  frontier 
community  had  yet  risen  to  sartorial  sublimity  so 
modishly  gorgeous  as  a  scoop  bonnet  of  white  straw 
scarletly  adorned  with  ribbons  shrillingly  bright. 

On  a  clear  day  (the  stage-coach  from  the  West  hav 
ing  arrived)  this  parasol  and  this  bonnet  were  seen 
to  pause  in  the  road  near  the  river,  very  near  the 
place  where  a  footpath  begins  the  ascent  of  the  green 
slope  tov/ard  a  cabin  topping  the  hill. 

In  the  heat-quiver  of  late  afternoon  the  pioneer 
abode  up  yonder  appeared  rather  cool,  an  effect 

85 


86  Wine  o    the  Winds 

largely  due  to  the  wild  morning-glory  vines  verdantly 
spread  over  half  the  house. 

While  the  bonnet  gazed  inquiringly  at  the  cabin  a 
little  girl  living  there  peeped  covertly  between  sash- 
curtains,  and  presently  whispered: 

"She's  waiting  yet." 

The  child's  aunt  went  on  spreading  down  a  cover 
for  the  earthen  floor,  a  carpet  of  grain  sacks  pieced 
together. 

"You  should  learn/'  she  said,  "not  to  make  such 
a  dust  when  you  sweep." 

Florence  was  not  getting  on  well  with  the  work, 
because  she  was  too  much  interested  in  watching  the 
parasol. 

"Still  there,"  she  announced.  "Waiting  for  the 
ferry  boat  to  come  back  to  this  side  of  the  river,  so 
she  can  ask  Tom  who  lives  up  here." 

With  head  on  one  side  Alice  was  eyeing  the  effect 
of  an  oval-shaped  rug,  one  formed  from  braided  rags 
and  now  carefully  hiding  the  darned  place  in  the 
carpet.  Then,  dabbing  her  heated  face  with  a  hand 
ful  of  apron,  she  caught  sight  of  a  spacious  brown 
blotch  on  the  stretched  muslin  of  the  ceiling. 

"Oh,"  she  sighed,  "if  only  they  didn't  leak  so, 
these  prairie  shingles!" 

A  roof  of  sods  overlaid  with  dirt  is  not,  in  truth, 
well  suited  to  withstand  the  drench  of  heavy  rains. 
But  even  if  the  ceiling  cloth  were  far  from  making  a 
brave  show,  Alice  and  her  small  niece  had  contrived 
to  give  the  place  an  air  very  inviting.  The  little 
girl  continued  to  whisk  about,  wiping  here  and  wiping 
there  with  a  dustcloth,  and  reaching  behind  her  back, 
with  strange  twists  and  wriggles,  to  get  her  apron 


"What  Does  He  See  in  Her?"  87 

unbuttoned.  Then  she  skipped  back  to  the  window, 
and  awesomely  delared: 

"It's  in,  the  ferry  boat.  He's  telling  her,  Tom  is. 
I  saw  his  head  go  up  and  down." 

Alice  mentioned  something  about  tea  .  .  . 
hot  day  ...  so  refreshing.  But  out  here  tea 
is  nothing.  Coffee's  the  thing.  People  must  have 
their  coffee.  Florence  was  to  bring  in  the  milk-pail 
from  the  well,  and  skim  off  the  cream. 

"My  shoes!"  teased  Connie. 

But  his  aunt,  with  mightier  business  on  hand,  was 
saying  to  Florence: 

"When  Arthur  comes  home,  send  him  to  wai-1. 
He's  not  cleaned  up." 

"7  am,"  little  brother  boasted.  "Just  rotten 
clean!" 

Once  the  visitor  had  knocked  and  been  sedately 
invited  to  enter,  she  was  told  that  it  was  rather  a 
hot  day,  wasn't  it?  And  dusty,  too.  Looking  cool 
in  her  blue  lawn  dress,  despite  her  heightened  colour, 
Alice  tried  to  be  politely  casual  when  she  asked  the 
stranger  to  take  a  chair,  but  she  also  said,  "Be 
seated." 

Rather  a  curious  effect  the  guest  instantly  pro 
duced.  Lithe,  graceful,  and  of  average  proportions, 
she  still  made  the  cabin  seem  small.  It  was  as  if 
she  did  not  belong  indoors,  any  more  than  the  eagle, 
bird  of  the  blue  skies,  belongs  in  a  cage. 

In  the  first  moment,  before  the  exchange  of  a 
syllable,  the  two  young  women  had  given  each  other 
the  look  which  meant: 

"What  does  he  see  in  her?" 

"I,"   the  visitor  announced  with  simple  direct- 


88  Wine  o    the  Winds 

ness,  "am  Winnie  Barton."  She  added  that  the 
North  boys,  maybe,  had  spoken  of  her.  "Haven't 
they?"  she  asked,  and  the  question  was  put  with  an 
engaging  matter-of-factness. 

Alice  wanted  to  be  cordial.  Everything  done  in 
her  busy  few  minutes  had  been  accomplished,  of 
course,  for  the  sake  of  making  a  good  impression. 
But  she  did  not  know  whether  she  would  be  able  to 
put  any  warmth  into  her  voice. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said.  "And  have  you  brought 
your  father?" 

"He's  down  at  the  stage  station.  It's  about  him 
I've  come  to  you."  Whimsically  the  visitor  smiled 
as  she  went  on:  "Only  he's  not  much  hurt.  He  says 
so.  Insists  that  he's  not.  Wants  it  understood 
that  he's  only  cmessed  up  a  little/ J: 

"Do  lay  off  your  bonnet,"  Alice  hospitably  en 
joined,  "and  make  yourself  quite  at  home,  while  I 
hook  up  the  team,  and  go  down  to  the  stage  station 
with  the  wagon.  Our  dinner  is  ...  We  must 
have  your  father  up  here  to  dinner.  It's  almost 
ready,  now." 

"Can't  be  done,"  his  daughter  gravely  asserted. 
"No,  he  couldn't  possibly  tear  himself  away  from  the 
dried-apple  pies  and  the  kind  of  coffee  they  have 
at  the  stage  stations.  I  don't  know  how  they  make 
their  coffee.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  made  of  stewed 
boot-tops,  and  again  I  figure  that  it  might  be  parched 
corn  and  axle-grease.  And  did  you  ever  taste  their 
dried-apple  pies  ?  No  ?  Oh,  what  you  have  missed ! " 

Alice  did  better  than  smile;  she  even  laughed  a 
little.  And  she  thought:  "What  a  strange  girl! 
Talks  nonsense.  Won't  let  herself  be  serious." 


"What  'Does  He  See  in  Her?"  89 

But  Winifred  had  grown  decidedly  serious  as  she 
went  on: 

"No,  please,  don't  go  after  him.  It's  nice  to  think 
of  it,  and  he  would  like  your  kindness;  but  I  just  tell 
you  how  it  is:  he  was  always  a  fine  figure  of  a  man — 
straight  and  strong  and  big!  And  now  to  be  so 
crippled  up!  You  know  what  I  mean.  His  pride 
is  hurt.  He  couldn't  stand  it  to  have  you  being  sorry 
for  him.  Even  I  have  to  let  on  that  it's  nothing  bad 
ailing  him.  Lame;  that's  it.  Smashed  a  little,  but 
nothing  to  last.  I'm  told  that  it  insulted  him,  right 
smart,  to  be  helped  into  the  saddle — him  with  his 
bad  shoulder  and  crushed  hip.  At  first,  of  course, 
he  had  to  be  helped;  and  several  weeks  the  boys  even 
made  him  ride  in  the  chuck  wagon.  He  scolds 
about  it  yet.  Can't,  somehow,  get  used  to  the  notion 
that  he's  really  hurt." 

She  smiled  as  a  mother  does  at  the  pettish  humours 
of  a  spoiled  child,  and  with  a  certain  droll  unction 
described  everything,  even  his  suffering.  When  she 
paused  it  was  to  look  all  about,  as  who  would  say: 
"Isn't  he  the  queer,  dear,  foolish  old  dad?" 

"I  can  see,"  Alice  answered,  "how  he  would  be 
sensitive.  But  he  surely  wouldn't  mind  if  we  sent 
him  something — a  tray,  with  a  little  dinner,  now, 
while  it's  fresh  and  hot." 

"That  would  be  .  ;  'i-  yes,  many  thanks;  he 
would  like  that.  And,"  the  prairie  girl  added,  with 
a  gratulatory  smile,  "he  knows  about  you.  He 
would  want  to  show  up  good  when  he  sees  you.  The 
North  boys,  you  see,  in  their  letters.  .  .  .  And 
each  one  of  their  nice  letters  I  have  sent  on  to  my 
father." 


90  Wine  o   the  Winds 

The  maternal  sweetness  which  the  sight  of  children 
is  likely  to  put  into  a  woman's  face  shone  in  the  dark 
eyes  of  Winifred  Barton.  She  was  looking  at  the 
little  boy,  while  Connie  kept  pressing  himself  against 
the  blue  skirt  of  his  Aunt  Alice. 

Truth  to  tell,  he  did  not  feel  complimented  by  the 
visitor's  belated  attention;  for  when  one  is  such  an 
important  personage  he  would  like  to  be  promptly 
noticed.  Connie  knew  he  was  important.  Wearing 
shoes  of  a  weekday,  and  being  scoured  so  shockingly 
clean,  made  him  feel  tremendously  important;  and 
yet  this  lady  with  the  folded  parasol  (which  now 
lacked  the  brilliant  glaw  that  had  delighted  him  when 
he  saw  it  vividly  red  in  the  sunshine)  this  lady  had 
only  talked  and  talked,  without  looking  at  him.  So 
now,  when  she  did  look,  and  even  said,  "That's 
Connie,  isn't  it?"  he  shyly  slipped  away  behind  his 
aunt. 

Florence,  being  in  the  period  of  girlhood's  rapid 
growth,  felt  slimmer  and  gawkier  than  common. 
The  physical  perfection  of  the  visitor  made  the  little 
girl  yearn  for  a  skirt  long  enough  to  hide  her  atten 
uated  legs.  She  grew  hot  all  over  when  the  caller 
said:  "And  you  are  the  one  Doctor  North  likes 
especially  to  tell  about.  You  must  be  Florence." 

With  a  stiff  little  bow  and  a  stiff  little  curtsey 
the  blossomy-faced  little  girl  stiffly  asserted: 

"Yes,  I  am  Florence."  Eager  to  say  something 
that  would  sound  natural,  she  betrayed  the  secret 
that  the  pewter  platter  (standing  in  its  pride  of  place 
on  the  mantelshelf)  was  a  household  glory  not  used 
every  day.  "Shall  we  have  this,"  she  asked,  "for 
the  roast ?" 


"What  Does  He  See  in  Her?"  9i 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,"  Alice  answered,  "to 
spread  a  napkin  over  it.  We'll  use  it  for  a  tray;  and 
please  rinse  out  the  canteen,  to  carry  the  coffee  in." 

"Where's  Flo  going  to  carry  the  coffee?"  the  little 
boy  inquired.  "To  the  stage  station?  May  I  go, 
too?  And  carry  the  dinner  tray?  I'm  strong!" 
he  declared. 

"Maybe  Florence  will  let  you  carry  the  canteen." 

Instead  of  protesting  politely,  as  an  Eastern 
woman  might,  that  it  would  be  a  bother,  and  quite 
unnecessary  to  send  a  dinner  down  to  the  stage 
station  for  her  father,  the  Western  girl,  accustomed 
to  the  ways  of  broad  hospitality,  said  at  once:  "How 
he  will  enjoy  something  well  cooked!  And  how  nice 
of  you  to  think  of  it!" 

Presently  the  two  children  went  off  down  the  hill, 
with  Florence  walking  very  steadily.  The  napkin 
she  had  spread  over  the  clinking  dishes  of  the  platter 
gleamed  white  in  the  sunshine,  like  a  fresh  coverlid 
of  snow. 

The  two  young  women,  left  to  themselves,  again 
exchanged  glances;  but  this  time  it  was  not  the  look 
which  meant:  "What  does  he  see  in  her?"  No,  it 
was  now  a  look  of  conflicting  selfishness  and  generos 
ity,  of  jealous  and  grudging  admiration.  How  the 
situation  stood  could  not  have  been  better  realized 
if  Alice  and  Winifred  had  openly  confessed  that  they 
wanted  to  like  each  other  very  much,  and  yet  won 
dered  whether  the  thing  would  be  possible. 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  the  visitor  announced. 
She  leaned  her  parasol  against  the  chair  from  which 
she  had  risen,  and  from  the  bright-coloured  bag,  the 
reticule  of  scarlet  silk  depending  by  ribbons  from  her 


Q2  Wine  o    the  Winds 

arm,  she  brought  out  a  folded  page  and  spread  it 
open.  "Here  now,"  she  went  on,  "this  letter — see 
— from  Doctor  North,  He  doesn't  practise  any 
more.  He  won't  take  care  of  my  father,  maybe — 
not  unless  you  ask  him  to.  But  you  will  ask  him. 
Won't  you?" 

Alice  did  not  know  what  to  say,  She  looked  at 
the  ceiling  sheet  where  bright  reflections  from  the 
river  wavered  in  a  rippled  dance.  Some  dark  flecks 
passed  across  the  bright  folds  of  the  muslin  window- 
shade — the  shadows,  doubtless,  of  swallows  cleaving 
the  air  with  airy  fleetness. 

When,  presently,  Alice  Arden  ended  the  long 
pause,  it  was  to  say  with  regret: 

"I  am  sure  he  wanted  to  go  to  your  father  at  Fort 
Kearney.  His  brother  and  I  tried  to  make  him  see 
that  he  really  ought  to  go.  But" — Alice  paused, 
and  moistened  her  lips — "I  greatly  doubt,  Miss 
Barton,  whether  Harry  North  will  ever  practise 
medicine  again." 


CHAPTER  III 

Summoned 

ACEPTING,  perforce,  the  care  of  a  local 
physician  named  Rogers,  the  injured  cattle 
man  resigned  himself  as  best  he  might  to 
ministrations  which  could  scarcely  be  less  efficacious, 
even  if  they  proved  no  better  than  the  treatment 
given  him  by  the  army  surgeon  at  Fort  Kearney. 

With  the  advent  of  the  newcomers  who  had  lodged 
at  first  in  a  Sibley  tent,  but  had  now  taken  up  their 
abode  in  a  sod  house,  there  had  come  to  young 
Doctor  North  a  change  quite  as  decided  as  that  which 
had  given  him  his  gray  hair. 

Not  that  he  saw  much  of  the  Texas  drover  and 
daughter;  for  in  truth  he  rarely  did  see  them,  and 
then  only  enough  to  express  a  neighbourly  interest. 
Yet  with  the  addition  of  those  two  people  to  the 
meagre  population  of  the  frontier  community  a  new 
phase  of  his  inner  life  had  declared  itself. 

Alice  Arden  could  not  but  realize  how  constantly 
he  yearned  for  his  profession.  The  surrender  of  it, 
as  she  had  the  acumen  clearly  to  understand,  was  the 
daily  sackcloth  and  ashes  worn  by  his  fighting  soul. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  period  of  heavy  frosts,  he  had 
busied  himself  in  harvesting  for  Alice  her  winter's 
supply  of  turnips;  and  at  dusk,  when  he  entered  the 
house,  he  brought  with  him  a  damp,  woollen  smell, 

93 


94  Wine  o    the  Winds 

for  a  fine  rain  was  falling.  The  children  watched  to 
see  whether  he  would  hang  up  his  coat  to  dry,  back 
of  the  woodstove  which  had  recently  been  substituted 
for  the  fireplace.  Should  he  dry  his  coat,  it  would 
mean  that  he  intended  to  visit  awhile  before  riding 
back  to  his  homestead. 

Quite  as  they  had  hoped,  he  did  indeed  take  off  his 
coat  which  soon  began  to  steam  a  little  as  it  hung 
a-drying.  Meanwhile,  he  put  his  hands  up  to  the 
clouded  window-glass,  and  his  face  between  them, 
the  better  to  look  out  into  the  deepening  darkness. 
How  many  times,  in  precisely  the  same  way,  he  had 
been  seen  to  do  this  peering  forth,  as  with  a  restless 
impulse  to  plunge  away  and  lose  himself  in  the  black 
drench  of  gloom ! 

Always  at  such  moments  a  mood  of  glumness 
seemed  to  invade  the  house;  and  to-night  the  loud 
ticking  of  the  clock  mingled  its  tediousness  with  the 
drip  and  dribble  from  the  eaves.  In  times  like  this 
the  children  yearned  for  a  good  jolly  feeling  to  come 
back.  They  wanted  jokes,  liveliness,  a  story  of  brave 
adventure. 

"You  ask  him/'  Connie  whispered.  "Maybe 
he'll  tell  us  again  about  the  smart  trick  the  prairie 
dogs  played  on  the  rattlesnake." 

This  chanced  to  be  a  favourite  tale  with  the  smaller 
child,  and  he  must  always  have  his  favourites. 

"Have  I  told  you,"  Harry  North  inquired,  after  he 
had  been  drawn  away,  a  child  clinging  to  either  hand, 
to  the  armchair  by  the  table,  "have  I  told  you  about 
the  mountain  sheep  whose  horns  get  so  big  that  he 
has  to  grind  them  off  by  rubbing  them  against  a 
rock?" 


Summoned  95 

He  raised  his  palm  to  shade  his  eyes  from  the 
candlelight,  and  the  shadow  of  his  hand  fell  aslant 
across  his  face,  like  a  black  wing.  Connie  climbed 
to  his  knees,  while  Arthur  leaned  against  the  table, 
the  "cow-lick"  at  the  boyish  crown  slanting  at 
tentively  forward. 

Doctor  North  had  cleared  his  voice,  ready  to  begin 
the  tale,  when  everybody  gave  a  start  of  surprise. 
Someone  had  knocked.  A  hurried  hand,  assertive 
and  loud,  rapped  a  second  time,  and  a  third. 

Alice  opened  the  door,  the  candle-flame  wagged  in 
the  draught,  and  a  man  came  in,  a  man  looking  very 
Corpulent  in  his  buffalo  overcoat,  brown  and  shaggy. 
During  the  pause  of  expectation,  after  he  had  entered, 
a  swishing  grit  as  of  coarse  sand  fell  against  the 
window.  Sleet — the  rain  had  turned  into  sleet. 
Even  when  the  stranger  spoke  you  could  still  hear 
the  prickle  and  rasp  of  the  storm  against  the  house. 

"The  doctor?"  he  began.  "At  the  drug  store,  they 
told  me  at  the  drug  store And  is  he  here?" 

With  the  black  shadow  across  his  face  Harry 
North  held  still.  An  alert  tenseness  had  come  to 
him,  as  if  at  any  moment  he  might  leap  from  the 
chair  and  get  away.  Not  so  much  as  a  glance  did  he 
give  to  the  visitor;  but  Alice  looked  and  looked  at 
the  man,  quite  as  though  there  might  be  something 
altogether  remarkable  in  the  grains  of  ice  melting 
and  glistening  on  his  wolf-skin  cap  and  in  the  hairy 
brown  tufts  of  his  capacious  coat. 

"The  doctor,"  he  repeated,  "must  come  with  me. 
Need  him.  I  need  him  mighty  bad." 

Silence  followed  this  announcement,  an  interval  of 
embarrassed  waiting.  Harry  North  did  not  move. 


96  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

Little  Connie  got  promptly  to  the  floor,  because  he 
could  not  stand  the  strangeness  of  the  man  holding 
him. 

A  curious  hush  had  taken  hold  of  the  house.  Alice, 
it  seemed,  could  scarcely  summon  breath  enough  to 
tell  the  visitor  what  she  felt  compelled  to  say — to  tell 
him,  slowly  and  reluctantly,  that  he  had  come  to  the 
wrong  place. 

"Doctor  Rogers,"  she  directed,  "three  doors  east 
of  the  blacksmith  shop." 

"Gone  on  a  sick  call,"  the  man  impatiently  an 
nounced.  "No  telling  when  he'll  be  back."  He 
swallowed,  he  moved  his  spur-jangling  feet,  he  beat  a 
fur  glove  against  his  palm.  "I  cant  wait,"  he  de 
clared.  "Won't  do  to  wait.  A  baby,  you  under 
stand.  Our  first  baby.  It  will  be  our  first.  Mustn't 
wait — can't — won't  do." 

Doctor  North  had  inclined  forward,  with  his  head 
between  his  palms. 

"Come,  now,"  the  man  importunately  demanded. 
"Come  along.  If  you're  the  doctor." 

Still  the  physician  did  not  move.  He  was  staring 
at  the  floor  between  his  feet. 

"Look  here,"  the  stranger  gruffly  and  petulantly 
cried  out,  "if  it's  a  question  of  pay "  He  ex 
hibited  a  fat  pouch;  he  declared  emphatically: 
"Damn  it,  no  charity  case.  Here — this — all,  take  it 
all,  the  whole  of  it!" 

Still  Harry  North  did  not  move.  Alice  alone  was 
moving.  From  a  wall-peg  she  had  energetically 
snatched  down  her  cloak. 

"For  the  love  of  Christ!"  the  young  fellow  im 
plored.  Then  he  stamped,  he  angrily  muttered,  he 


Summoned  97 

gripped  a  shoulder  of  the  silent  man.  "Come.  Get 
on  your  legs.  Our  first,  you  understand.  Won't 
you  come?" 

The  stony  unresponsiveness  of  the  man  in  the 
chair,  the  frozen  immobility  of  that  bent  figure  so 
exasperated  the  urgent  visitor  that  he  flung  open  his 
overcoat,  and  plunged  a  hand  to  his  hip.  But 
without  closing  upon  the  ivory  butt  of  the  six-shooter 
in  its  worn  and  shiny  holster,  the  hand  laxly  fell.  He 
saw  that  Alice  had  opened  the  door  of  a  lantern  to 
light  the  candle  in  it.  Then  came  a  humble  kind  of 
muttering: 

"He  is,  though — he  is  a  doctor.  I  know  it.  They 
were  telling  below — Kane  said  so,  and  a  young  lady 
— I  arranged,  of  course,  with  Doctor  Rogers.  Only 
the  time,  you  understand,  has  come  quicker  than  we 
thought." 

Spurts  of  light  through  the  perforated  top  of  the 
lantern  freckled  the  girl's  hand  with  luminous  specks 
of  yellow. 

"Such  a  young  thing  to  suffer  so  much!"  the  man 
went  on.  "Eighteen  last  July.  Only  eighteen." 
He  babbled  of  bad  luck.  It  was  very  unfortunate. 
"Things  happen  so,"  he  said,  "as  if  on  purpose. 
Doc  Rogers  to  be  away  at  such  a  time!" 

"Where,"  Alice  inquired,  "is  your  homestead?" 

"You  mean  he'll  come,  then?     Eh,  will  he?" 

"Tell  me  the  place,"  she  insisted. 

"The  place?  Why,  you  swing  off  to  the  left, 
where  the  trail  branches  at  Spring  Hollow.  You  go 
straight  on  till  you  come  to  Twin  Cottonwoods. 
Can't  miss  the  house.  It's  the  only  one  in  sight 
when  you  come  to  Twin  Cottonwoods." 


98  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Doctor  North  took  up  a  table-fork,  looked  at  it, 
and  put  it  down.  He  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  a 
stranger  had  come  for  him;  that  Alice  had  been  talk 
ing  with  someone;  that  the  man  was  waiting. 

Meanwhile  she  had  drawn  the  cloth  hood  over  her 
head.  She  added,  as  she  hastened  toward  the  door 
with  the  lantern  in  her  hand: 

"Just  wait  till  I  cinch  a  saddle  on.  One  of  us, 
Doctor  North  or  I,  will  go  with  you." 

"Why  wait?"  he  asked,  impatiently  shuffling  and 
making  his  spurs  jingle.  "No,  I  better  hurry  back, 
hadn't  I?  You  know  the  place.  Twin  Cotton- 
woods.  Everybody  knows  Twin  Cottonwoods.  It's 
better,  I  guess,  for  me  to  go  ahead.  Yes.  Get  every 
thing  ready." 

"Very  well;  ride,  then,"  she  agreed.  "Heat 
plenty  of  water.  Keep  up  a  hot  fire." 

She  went  out,  followed  by  the  man,  and  the 
crunching  of  sleet  on  the  doorstep  sounded  with  a 
gritty  loudness. 

Awhile  later,  when  she  returned,  her  hood  and 
shoulders  were  fluffed  over  with  downy  white,  for 
once  more  the  weather  had  changed.  Snow,  in  great 
wet,  adhesive  flakes,  had  come  trembling  and  balanc 
ing  everywhere  through  all  the  spaces  of  the  night. 

With  swift  steps  Alice  went  up  to  Harry  North, 
and  laying  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  she  peered 
searchingly  into  his  eyes. 

"One  of  us  must  attend  that  young  mother. 
Shall  I  do  it?"  she  asked.  Something  firm  and  com 
pelling  sounded  in  her  tone.  "Shall  I?"  she  de 
manded,  "or  will  you?" 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  THE  night's  pale  darkness  the  frontier  village 
lay  dumb  and  sheeted  up.  Nowhere  any  neigh 
bourly  sound,  not  so  much  as  a  dog  barking. 

Storm  would  scarcely  be  the  word  for  this  fall  of 
snow.  It  was  a  flowing  animation,  hushed  and 
moist.  One  delicately  felt  the  flakes  —  the  phantom 
haste  of  them;  and  their  eddying,  continuous  and 
light,  touched  the  gentler  senses  as  a  perception 
rather  than  a  sound.  It  was  not  cold.  Eaves- 
drippings  gave  token  that  the  snow  had  been  melting 
a  little  as  it  fell,  but  it  kept  on  falling;  the  air  quiv 
ered  with  it,  and  lighted  windows  of  the  settlement 
no  longer  shone,  but  glowed  in  blotted  saffron  spots 
and  halos. 

As  for  Doctor  North,  once  he  had  swung  himself 
into  the  saddle,  he  briskly  started  away.  But  on 
such  a  night  as  this,  how  is  it  possible  to  speed  as 
fast  as  the  exigency  might  demand?  His  horse  had 
begun  to  stumble;  for  the  wet  snow,  collecting  and 
balling  under  shod  hoofs,  prevented  a  sure  footing, 
so  that  it  became  necessary,  now  and  again,  for  the 
rider  to  dismount  and  knock  off  the  hard-packed  and 
rounded  lumps. 

The  journey  lengthened.  Scattered  village  lights, 
one  after  another,  kept  dropping  from  view.  Now 

99 


ioo  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

and  again  North  turned  in  the  saddle  to  see  whether 
any  pin-point  of  yellow  might  still  fleck  the  window 
of  the  cabin  he  had  left.  Sometimes,  as  his  vision 
groped  for  that  aureate  stab  of  radiance,  an  im 
pression  came  to  him  of  vague  forms,  two  animal- 
shapes,  ambiguously  moving  in  the  storm  obscurity, 
one  farther  distant  than  the  other. 

He  rode  on.  The  clouded  warmth  of  a  settler's 
window  seemed  not  so  much  to  rise  as  to  float  into 
view  and  swim  past.  Familiar  hills,  likewise,  were 
being  left  behind.  Many  had  lost  themselves  in  the 
hurrying  hush  of  the  storm  which  as  yet  had  abated 
not  a  jot  its  infinitude  of  ghostly  whisperings. 

For  distances  beyond  reckoning  the  rider  could 
feel  how  the  prairie  was  being  deeply  swathed. 
What  a  wonderful  fall  of  snow !  All  the  frosty  spaces 
of  sky  and  air  were  still  spending  prodigally  of  their 
delicate  flakiness  as  though  from  an  inexhaustible 
store. 

North  told  himself:  "It's  colder,  much  colder; 
but  drier,  too.  I  shall  reach  Twin  Cottonwoods  if 
only  the  wind  doesn't  blow." 

Aye,  the  wind!  There  was  the  thing  to  dread.  If 
the  hills  should  be  shorn  of  their  delicate  fleeces; 
if  they  should  be  stripped  naked  by  one  of  those 
ghastly  blizzards  of  the  plains  whose  prodigious  seeth 
ing  wipes  out  the  trail  and  every  landmark!  North 
knew  the  treachery  of  such  a  storm;  calamitous 
smothers  of  snow  and  wind,  breath-crushing  blurs, 
a  blind  fury  amazing  in  amplitude — strangling — 
overwhelming! 

It  might  be  better,  he  mused — infinitely  safer — if 
the  man  who  summoned  him  had  been  kept  for  com- 


If!       .;*•  .;,  :    :::•;•;..   ioj 

panion  and  guide.  Someone  endowed  with  the 
Indian's  instinct  for  direction,  someone  able  to 
travel  this  trail  with  sureness,  even  through  the 
bafflement  of  cannonading  winds,  would  at  least 
give  comradely  assurance  to  a  person  having  far  to 
go  on  such  a  night  as  this. 

Gazing  back  over  the  route  he  had  come,  it  again 
seemed  to  North  that  an  impalpable  stain,  darkly 
uncertain,  was  continuously  clouding  forward  through 
the  falling  snow.  Formerly  there  had  been  two  of 
those  dim  shapes,  but  now  only  one. 

What  could  it  be?  A  horseman?  If  so,  how  very 
lucky!  He  shouted.  He  set  up  a  loud  hallooing 
to  ascertain  the  truth  of  his  speculation.  And  it 
pleased  yet  surprised  him  that  the  replying  voice 
should  not  be  far  off,  but  near,  incredibly  near,  and 
gayly  cheerful. 

Someone  was  calling: 

"Here  I. am— here  I  am!" 

Amazing  thing!  North  could  scarce  believe  what 
he  heard.  "Alice!"  he  gasped. 

She  laughed  with  gleeful  exhilaration.  "We 
better  keep  moving,"  she  said.  "No  time  to  waste." 

Pride  sounded  in  his  voice  as  he  exclaimed: 

"What  a  frontiers  worn  an  youVe  come  to  be!" 

"I  thought,"  she  observed,  as  she  drew  nearer, 
"that  I  saw  someone  else  on  the  trail." 

"So  did  I,"  he  answered. 

Yet  with  such  icy  perils  threatening,  he  knew 
Alice  must  not  go  on  with  him.  "Awfully  jolly  to 
have  you  see  me  well  on  my  way.  But  you've  come 
far  enough.  You  must  go  back  now." 

"Go?— where?" 


102  Wine  o    the  Winds 

"Back." 

"Must  I,  though?" 

"You  must,  dear." 

"No." 

"But  indeed,  indeed  you  must.*' 

Like  little  Connie  who  changes  the  subject  when 
being  corrected  for  his  misdeeds,  Alice  said  irrele 
vantly: 

"I  borrowed  this  black  horse  from  the  Harrises. 
Nigger  is  his  name.  They  call  him  Nig." 

The  front  of  her  scarf,  already  white  with  her 
frozen  breath,  seemed  ever  to  widen  the  pale  zone 
of  its  crispness. 

"What  an  idea,  coming  off  like  this,"  he  said. 
"And  it  won't  do,  Alice.  Not  the  thing  to  leave  the 
children  alone.  What  can  you  be  thinking  about?" 

"But,  of  course,  Hal,  they're  not  alone.  Mrs. 
Harris  is  staying  with  them." 

While  their  aunt  kept  on,  as  before,  definitely 
refusing  to  be  sent  back;  the  young  man  suddenly 
drew  his  horse  over  close  to  hers,  and  timorously 
putting  forth  an  ungloved  hand,  he  gently  touched 
her  cheek. 

"Your  work  is  done,"  she  heard  him  telling  her 
very  earnestly.  "The  best  you  can  hope  to  do. 
The  rest  .  .  .  my  affair.  So  now  it  is  to  be 
good-night." 

"No!"  With  this  final  refusal  went  a  shake  of  her 
body  so  decided  that  a  blur  of  snow  fell  tumbling 
from  her  hood  and  shoulders. 

"Very  well."  A  tone  of  crisp  command,  even  a 
trifle  bullying,  had  come  into  his  voice.  "Go,  then, 
if  you  like.  But  you  will  be  going  alone." 


If!  103 

He  had  halted.  When  next  he  spoke  it  seemed  to 
Alice  that  she  had  never  before  heard  him  speak 
with  an  inflection  so  gentle,  yet  mandatory  and  deep 
with  emotional  warmth. 

"Not  a  step  farther,  not  a  jot  do  I  move  from  here, 
until  I  see  you  safely  on  your  way  toward  home/' 

"Don't  send  me  back/*  she  pleaded.  "I  must 
stay  with  you.  Must,  Hal.  Your  patient  will  want 
me.  I'm  qualified  to  help.  Once,  when  Doctor 
Malcolm  could  get  no  one  else,  I  helped  him.  Didn't 
do  so  badly.  I'm  sure  he  has  told  you  that." 

North  had  turned  his  horse.  He  sat  motionless  in 
the  saddle,  sternly  and  inflexibly  waiting  for  her  to 
leave. 

Here,  meanwhile,  amid  all  this  white  bigness  of 
the  prairie,  amid  the  vastness,  the  hush,  and  the 
unutterable  foreboding,  how  paltry  and  pitiably 
little  seemed  these  people,  these  two  human  atoms. 

One  of  the  atoms  began  naively  coaxing  like  a 
child:  "Let  me  stay;  let  me  go  with  you.  Please 
do!  I  won't  be  a  nuisance." 

The  man  had  to  laugh,  hearing  her  say  that. 
Dear  nonsense,  he  thought  it.  And  having  laughed, 
he  said  to  her  with  a  gentleness  more  to  be  obeyed 
than  any  sovereign  command: 

"The  children  have  only  you.  They  need  their 
aunt." 

But  she  answered: 

"To-night  they  need  me  less  than  that  girl,  that 
birth-giver.  And  what  have  I  come  for? — tell  me 
that! — if  it  isn't  that  I  am  needed." 

One  could  not  argue  with  Alice  Arden.  Doctor 
North  could  only  repeat: 


IO4  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

"You  are  delaying  me.     You  must  go  back." 

"Well,  if  I  must.  .  .  .  But  how  stubborn 
you  are!  What  an  obstinate,  what  a  dear,  foolish, 
precious,  horrid  old  thing  you  are!" 

Kissing  her  hands  to  him,  she  turned  and  rode 
away.  Through  the  falling  snow  he  heard  her  calling 
back: 

"Good-night,  dear  boy!    Good  luck!" 

So  they  parted.  And  being  parted,  he  wished 
her  back  again.  For  it  would  be  a  long  way — a  long, 
lonely  way  for  him,  this  grim  trail  to  Cottonwoods. 

But,  as  he  went,  a  desire  to  laugh  came  to  him. 
Not  in  years  had  he  felt  so  acutely  alive,  so  capable, 
so  buoyantly  full  of  energy. 

Some  miles  farther  he  had  travelled  when,  with 
jerky  abruptness,  the  horse  stopped  short.  He 
stopped,  quivered,  backed,  went  whirling  frantically 
about.  Had  the  animal  been  poisoned  with  loco 
weed  he  could  not  have  behaved  in  a  manner  more 
crazily  obstinate.  He  braced  himself,  he  refused  to 
proceed;  neither  quirt  nor  spur  could  urge  him  on. 

North,  all  the  same,  could  see  nothing  sinister  here 
abouts.  Rubbing  the  ice-beads  from  his  lashes, 
he  took  sharp  account  of  his  environment.  And 
throughout  the  dancing  flow  and  hesitating  quiver 
of  flakes  still  endlessly  falling  he  espied  many  white 
mounds.  Strange  he  did  not  recognize  them!  To 
right  and  left,  and  in  front  of  him,  they  were  scattered 
all  about.  Nearly  of  the  same  size,  shaped  all  alike, 
these  snow  heaps  resembled  a  waste  of  boulders 
neatly  shrouded  with  white  foam. 

What  could  they  be?  He  turned  in  the  saddle, 
he  carefully  examined  them,  he  strove  anxiously  to 


///  io5 

make  out  any  familiar  shape  amid  those  bulging 
fleeces.  Might  it  be  possible,  he  wondered,  that  he 
had  strayed  off  the  trail,  even  though  he  had  been 
extremely  confident,  until  now,  of  his  direction  ? 

All  at  once  some  of  the  white  mounds  began  to 
heave  cumbrously  and  grow  animate.  Astounding 
miracle!  Behold  many  graves  opening,  many  tomb 
stones  rising,  as  if  the  last  trumpet  might  have 
sounded!  Only  these  sheeted  graves  rose  like  cows, 
massive,  humped,  dark  underneath,  with  backs  all 
fluffed  over  as  with  loose  cotton.  They  got  up 
rapidly,  surprised  snorts  and  steamy  breaths  rising 
with  them,  and  they  went  floundering  into  motion, 
shouldering  their  way  against  the  storm,  instead  of 
drifting  with  it  as  domestic  cattle  do. 

"  So ! "  North  exclaimed.  "  Snug  bedding  ground 
for  them."  He  had  heard,  often  enough,  of  how 
weather-wise  are  the  buffalo  of  the  plains,  and  that 
once  "sensing  a  big  shove  of  blizzard,"  they  will 
promptly  get  ready  for  it  by  moving  along  into  ar- 
royos  and  sheltered  places. 

Encouragingly  the  rider  said  to  his  horse: 

"That's  it.  Pound  along,  old  boy.  Get  some 
where." 

He  passed  oval  spaces  on  the  ground,  the  spaces 
vacated  by  the  slowly  galloping  beasts,  and  these 
dark  patches  of  earth,  denting  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  snow,  gave  the  illusion  of  deep  holes.  They 
looked  ominous  enough;  everything  looked  so.  But 
no  matter.  Let  there  be  difficulties !  He  felt  warm, 
and  joyous,  and  foolishly  invincible.  He  was  not 
a  mere  doctor  answering  a  professional  call;  he  was 
a  knight  entering  the  lists  against  the  dreadfulest 


io6  Wine  o    the  Winds 

of  adversaries,  to  do  battle  with  the  great  north 
wind. 

Hands  and  feet  tingled.  Frost  burned  the  lips  of 
Doctor  North.  In  his  throat,  and  deep  down  into 
his  lungs,  he  felt  a  scalding  as  from  acid  fumes. 
Cold,  cold,  the  puckering  and  metallic  taste  of  bitter, 
biting  cold! 

"If,"  North  said  to  himself,  "if  only,  for  a  little 
while  longer,  the  wind  doesn't  begin  to  blow!" 

If!  What  a  syllable  it  is,  that  ;/.  The  white- 
fleeced  hills,  the  sheeted  prairie,  the  benumbing  frost, 
all  the  multiplying  pangs  of  a  ghastly  suspense  were 
nothing  else  than  a  colossal  and  appalling  If.  Every 
where  hopeless  insecurity,  aching  silence,  a  still 
ferocity  of  cold.  No  wind,  no  breath  of  wind.  The 
tnight  lying  in  an  icy  swoon,  stunned,  amazing  in 
loveliness,  ghastly  in  the  virginal  reach  of  mighty 
solitudes.  And  it  was  not  a  dead  witchery.  It  was 
waiting. 

The  horse  seemed  to  know  what  it  awaited.  He 
ran,  he  fled  away,  he  steamed  all  over  in  a  prodigious 
effort  to  outrace  the  coming  of  the  great  north  wind. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  Monster 

SNOW,  and  a  bursting  sibilance.  Window-panes 
all  blind  with  frost.  Everywhere  curious 
pouncings  and  fumblings. 

Arthur  frightens  his  little  brother  with  the  gro 
tesque  fancy  that  some  drunken  giant'  has  come 
floundering  against  the  house.  The  monster  is  still 
there.  Don't  you  hear  him?  All  that  panting,  and 
heaving,  and  wheezing!  If  he  keeps  on  shoving  like 
that,  he  will  surely  push  the  cabin  over.  But  he 
can't  get  in.  He  is  too  big  to  get  in.  Yet  hear  how 
the  great  ruffian  keeps  right  on  shuffling  at  the  door! 

Night  long  and  all  day  long  this  log-built  home  of 
theirs  has  quaked  to  the  pressure  of  the  wind;  and 
ceaselessly  the  immense  hissing  continues,  as  from 
enormous  steam  pipes  shattered. 

Using  a  knife-blade,  scraping  and  rubbing,  Alice 
has  opened  a  peep-hole  in  the  crystalled  fernery  and 
jagged  encrustations  of  the  window.  But  what  is  to 
be  seen  out  yonder?  The  frost  of  the  pane  is  only  a 
deeper  gray  than  the  gray  of  the  blizzard's  unabated 
blurrings. 

To  conserve  the  fuel  supply  has  not  been  easy. 
For  the  check-draught,  what  with  such  mighty  winds 
a-blowing,  grows  rather  ineffectual.  No  matter 
that  the  stove  may  be  tightly  shut  up,  it  pants  con- 
icy 


io8  Wine  o    the  Winds 

tinuously;  it  pants  and  roars  as  if  every  coal  of  fire 
were  going  to  be  sucked  away.  Heat  flies  also; 
there  is  no  fervour  in  the  flames  avidly  gushing.  In 
the  pole  frame  work  of  the  bunks  each  nail-head  at 
the  joints  has  put  on  a  rounded  cap  of  frost. 

By  calking  with  rags  the  wheezing  places  about  the 
windows,  Florence  has  been  of  much  assistance  to 
her  aunt;  but  still  new  places,  unsuspected  crannies, 
keep  on  declaring  themselves,  and  through  these 
flaws  white  serpent  tongues  of  snow  come  licking  in. 
The  buffalo  robe,  on  the  upper  bed,  is  all  gray  with 
unmelted  siftings. 

More  than  once  Alice  has  said:  "It's  not  so  bad 
now.  I'll  try  again." 

She  wants  to  go  to  the  barn.  She  is  thinking  of 
the  mules  that  ought  to  be  fed,  and  especially  of  the 
cow  that  ought  to  be  milked.  In  cloak,  hood,  shawl, 
and  knitted  scarf,  with  a  tin  pail  on  her  arm,  she  is 
prepared  to  make  the  plunge;  but  let  her  open  the 
door  to  go  out,  and  the  great  wallowing  of  snow  in 
stantly  shoves  her  back.  Then,  with  Florence  help 
ing,  there  comes  a  great  tussle  with  the  door,  to  get 
it  shut  again. 

On  the  peg  Alice  hangs  up  the  pail  and  harkens  as 
if  it  might  be  possible  to  hear  the  lowing  of  the  cow. 
"Poor  thing!"  she  sighs,  and  though  she  may  pity, 
she  durst  not  try  to  relieve  the  animal's  suffering. 

From  the  bed,  where  the  two  boys  have  cuddled 
together,  in  an  effort  to  get  warm,  Arthur  observes: 

"This  must  be  a  storm  like  the  one  Seth  Martin 
tells  about.  Some  antelopes  were  driven  right 
against  the  fence  of  his  corral.  He  found  them  there, 
frozen  stiff." 


The  Monster  109 

"Don't!"  Aunt  Alice  exclaims.  She  cannot  bear 
such  talk.  Florence,  however,  would  like  to  know 
more  about  the  frozen  antelopes;  but  she  observes, 
disdainfully,  while  rubbing  her  hands  together  above 
the  stove: 

"Seth  Martin  tells  big  yarns.  Was  only  stuffing 
you,  most  likely." 

"No,  he  wasn't.  Some  men  were  talking.  They 
were  telling  about  great  storms  out  on  the  plains. 
One  man — a  soldier  he  was,  who  went  with  the  dra 
goons  against  the  Mormons — he  told  about  mules, 
army  mules,  all  squeezed  together.  And  it  was  sad 
to  hear  them;  they  groaned  so,  and  cried,  on  account 
of  the  cold,  and  the  snow  blowing  over  them !  Two 
of  them,  next  morning.  .  .  ." 

"Do  talk  of  something  else,"  Alice  interrupts,  and 
then  speaks  to  Florence,  saying  over  again  what  she 
has  previously  said: 

"  In  four  hours,  even  if  the  going  was  bad,  he  could 
surely  ride  to  Twin  Cottonwoods.  Yes,  even  three 
hours — plenty  of  time.  I  am  glad  the  wind  held  off 
so  long.  No  need  to  worry.  Foolish  to  worry." 

Many  hours  the  storm  has  continued;  but  with  the 
falling  of  this,  the  second  night,  the  wind  also  falls, 
and  now  a  frozen  hush  grips  the  house.  All  the 
wooden  joints  go  on  contracting  with  the  still  in 
tensity  of  cold.  Brief,  weird,  ever  unexpected,  a 
frosty  snap  now  and  again  startles  the  silence. 
These  abrupt  little  noises  are  the  haunting  ghosts 
of  violence  left  here  by  the  long  bombardment  of 
mighty  winds. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Third  Rider— Winifred? 

DURING    the    period    of   early    candlelight 
Victor  North   came  wading  to  the  house, 
for  the  purpose  of  bringing  in  firewood  and 
helping  with  the  chores.     The  knitted  scarf  drawn 
up  over  the  lower  part  of  his  face  lay  like  a  silver 
patch,  so  white  it  was  and  stiff  from  the  frost  of  his 
breath.     He  talked  calmly,  showing  Alice  that  he 
had  not  grown  in  the  least  alarmed  over  the  absence 
of  his  brother. 

Good  the  wind  had  gone  down.  What  a  blow  it 
had  been!  Drifts  even  ten  and  fifteen  feet  high. 
The  mild  and  open  weather,  Victor  said,  had  started 
the  sap  in  the  trees,  and  now  several  of  them,  down 
by  the  river,  had  burst  with  the  frost,  splitting  wide 
open.  A  snapped  twig  fell  on  the  telegraph  wire, 
making  it  ring  like  a  tuning  fork,  so  keenly  cold  was 
the  air. 

Shivering  a  little,  despite  his  nearness  to  the  stove, 
Victor  presently  added: 

"As  I  was  coming  down  to  the  river,  I  thought  I 
saw  someone,  a  woman,  crossing  on  the  ice.  And 
sure  enough,  it  was  a  woman.  She  knew  me  before 
I  recognized  her.  Winnie  Barton.  Asked  at  once 
about  my  brother.  Wanted  to  know  whether  Hal 
had  got  back/' 

no 


The  Third  Rider— Winifred ?  in 

Alice  inquired:  "Is  her  father  worse?" 

"She  didn't  say.  Appeared  serious.  None  of 
her  customary  nonsense  and  jocularities.  I  was  to 
tell  Hal,  when  he  got  back  from  Twin  Cottonwoods, 
that  her  father  would  like  to  see  him.  I  asked  if  he 
seemed  to  be  failing,  and  she  said,  'Not  especially/ 
Her  voice  sounded  tired." 

How  had  she  learned,  Alice  wondered,  that  Hal 
had  gone  off  on  a  sick  call? 

Kane,  it  appeared,  had  been  rilling  a  new  prescrip 
tion  for  her  father,  and  it  was  while  she  was  waiting 
that  the  man  came  there.  He  didn't  drop  in,  but 
(as  she  put  it)  he  "plumped  in,  looking  sorrier  than 
a  singed  cat."  The  phrasings  and  odd  expressions 
of  Winifred  Barton  were  always  being  quoted  by 
both  of  the  North  brothers.  "Rather  droll," 
Victor  went  on,  "to  hear  her  tell  about  him.  Said 
he  was  scairt;  that  was  her  word.  'Scairt,  and  miser 
able,  and  happy.  A  perfect  dear!  And  mad,  too/ 
I  had  better  believe  it.  'Mad  enough  to  shoot  up 
the  place.  Acted  as  if  it  was  all  the  druggist's  fault 
that  he  couldn't  get  hold  of  Doc  Rogers.'  Wanted 
Kane  to  go  with  him,  wanted  her  to  go,  wanted  (so 
she  declared)  'to  turn  the  whole  settlement  upside 
down.'" 

"Yes,  and  she  would  have  gone,  too,"  Alice  gener 
ously  conceded.  "I  don't  doubt  that — if  there  had 
been  no  one  else  to  go." 

Yet  it  was  less  of  this  than  of  something  else  that 
the  children's  aunt  was  thinking.  She,  too,  had 
imagined  a  third  rider,  last  night,  on  the  trail  of 
Cottonwoods.  Who  was  it?  Could  that  have  been 
Winnie  Barton?  What  if  she  had  foreseen  the  com- 


H2  Wine  oj  the  Winds 

ing  of  the  stupendous  storm  and  had  realized  that 
Harry  North  was  faring  forth  against  blood-numbing 
forces  of  frost  and  snow  and  wind? 

As  the  result  of  this  inquisitorial  musing  it  is  not  to 
be  supposed  that  Alice  Arden  would  be  pleased  with 
the  part  she  had  played.  "If  I  hadn't  been  there," 
she  was  telling  herself,  "  that  stop-at-nothing  creature 
would  have  gone  on  with  him.  He  could  not  have 
sent  her  back.  She  would  have  seen  him  through.'* 

Last  night,  had  the  third  rider  been  identified  as 
Winifred  Barton,  her  presence  might  have  been 
bitterly  resented;  but  a  mood  of  torturing  suspense 
leaves  no  room  for  jealous  considerations.  Whatever 
may  have  been  going  on  in  Alice  Arden,  she  continued 
to  chat  with  Victor  North,  uttering  small  talk  fluently, 
scarcely  betraying  even  the  faintest  note  of  anxiety. 
As  he  left  the  house  he  could  only  suppose  that  Alice 
was  not  allowing  herself  to  be  unduly  worried.  Nor 
could  he  guess  that  all  through  the  night,  whenever 
a  house-beam  snapped,  she  would  rouse  up,  hopefully 
expecting  that  this  time,  surely,  it  would  be  Doctor 
North  knocking  at  the  door. 

For,  of  course,  he  would  have  the  thoughtfulness 
to  come.  He  would  come  straight  here  to  tell  her 
how  the  case  was  faring,  and  to  let  her  know  that  all 
had  gone  well  with  him. 

What  a  dreary  period  it  had  come  to  be,  this  end 
less  season  of  waiting!  Eventually,  however,  the 
tarnished  silver  of  the  encrusted  windows  shifted 
to  a  violet  tone  and  then  to  blue;  for  now  the  slug 
gard  day  had  fairly  begun  its  imperceptible  brighten 
ing  over  a  world  more  deeply  swathed  than  ever 
with  new  depths  of  snow  freshly  fallen. 


The  Third  Rider— Winifred  ?  113 

Up  the  young  woman  rose  at  once.  Morning  at 
last!  She  must  have  breakfast  ready  for  Doctor 
North  when  he  came.  Only  it  grew  more  and  more 
difficult  for  her  to  keep  from  standing  at  the  window, 
idle,  motionless,  for  ever  gazing  out  yonder  into  that 
august  emptiness,  that  stainless  majesty  of  white. 

One  of  the  children,  little  Connie,  roused  himself 
drowsily,  and  seeing  his  aunt  darkly  outlined  against 
the  frosted  window,  he  sleepily  inquired: 

"Do  you  see  him?     Is  he  coming?" 

Silent  as  before,  Alice  went  on  looking  through 
the  cleared  space  of  the  window,  and  as  she  gazed 
she  grew  aware  that  the  sun  was  rising.  All  the 
pillowed  snow,  gouged,  scooped,  heaped  illimitably 
into  mounds,  had  now  begun  to  take  on  a  warmth 
of  colouring.  It  flushed  like  living  flesh,  but  marble 
is  not  more  lifeless,  nor  ice  more  cold,  than  the  pinky 
sheen  and  sparkle  of  that  dead  wilderness. 

"I  don't,"  she  finally  answered,  "I  don't  see  him." 


CHAPTER  VII 

Thanksgiving 

SOMEONE  knocked.  The  rapping  came  at  a 
period  when  Alice  had  abandoned  the  win 
dow,  to  rest  her  eyes,  if  not  her  heart,  from 
the  ache  of  the  snow's  vast  bedazzlement.  How 
benumbing  a  torpor  had  come  to  her  from  the  long 
term  of  high-keyed  anxiety  could  not  better  be  at 
tested  than  by  this,  that  at  first  she  did  not  hear  the 
impatient  knuckle-blows  of  an  assertive  hand.  But 
when  the  whole  cabin  resounded  like  a  drum  with  the 
whack-whack-whack  of  booted  feet  kicking  off  the 
snow,  she  sped  instantly  to  the  door  and  flung  it  wide. 

Only  to  be  disappointed.  "Oh!"  she  said,  her 
hands  going  up  to  her  temples  and  pressing  hard  as 
if  to  still  the  throbbing. 

"Come,"  she  articulated.  "Come  in.  Never 
mind  the  snow."  Then  she  gripped  the  door-post, 
holding  herself  steady.  "I  know  you.  From  Cot- 
tonwoods.  Well?" 

"Bad  storm,"  the  man  asserted. 

"Say  it!"  she  demanded.  "Lost?  You  haven't 
found  him?  Well,  if  it's  that.  ...  So,  so! 
You  smile.  Come  in,  warm  yourself.  Hot  coffee. 
.  .  .  Talk,  why  don't  you?  To  stand,  and  not 
talk.  .  .  .  Wood,  Florence;  cram  wood  into 
the  fire.  He's  half  frozen." 

114 


Thanksgiving  115 

Gruffly  chuckling  as  he  moved,  the  man  clumsily 
entered.  Big  and  shaggy  in  wolf-skin  cap  and  buffalo 
overcoat,  he  suggested  something  grotesquely  jolly, 
like  a  dancing  bear.  In  time  to  his  hopping,  boyish 
stride,  all  the  dishes  in  the  cupboard  clinked  and 
clattered. 

"Floundered  through!"  Alice  exclaimed.  "It 
must  be  so.  But  can't  you  speak?  Well,  sir,  what 
about  it?" 

"He  did;  he  got  there." 

"What  then?     In  time?     Is  it  all  right?" 

"All  right,  yes.     It's  a  boy." 

"And  Doctor  North?  Still  there?  .  .  .  Quick, 
Flo :  cup  and  saucer,  coffee,  thick  cream. — Still  there, 
you  say?" 

"Still  there;  yes,  mom.  Doc  is  still  there.  It's 
a  boy." 

The  brown  and  hairy  flaps  of  the  man's  high  coat 
collar  had  paled  with  collected  frost;  the  moustache 
and  whiskers  about  his  mouth  were  icily  beaded. 
After  his  furry  mittens  had  gone  flapping  down  on 
the  floor,  he  began  to  pick  at  the  frozen  fringe  about 
his  lips,  and  whenever  seedy  crystals  fell  on  the  hot 
stove,  they  skipped  and  crazily  hopped,  with  a  hiss 
and  a  sputter,  and  a  quick  vanishment  into  tiny 
whiffs  of  steam. 

"Tell  us,  please,"  Aunt  Alice  went  on,  "tell  us  why 
he  stays.  Why  didn't  he  come  back  with  you?" 

Her  voice  sounded  complacent  and  satisfied,  as  if 
she  were  one  who  would  never,  by  any  manner  of 
means,  be  so  foolish  as  to  worry.  "Reached  you 
in  time,"  she  repeated.  "You  said  so."  All  her 
hot  impatience,  it  would  seem,  had  chilled  to  dis- 


ii6  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

ciplined  restraint.  She  could  wait.  Let  him  take 
his  time.  Now,  at  least,  she  would  know  how  to 
wait  until  he  told  everything. 

"Pretty  crimpy,"  he  announced.  "It  sure  is  cold. 
You  bet!" 

But  it  was  not  of  the  weather  nor  of  Doctor  North 
that  the  visitor  was  thinking.  He  felt  good,  he 
smiled.  Something  proud,  gentle,  and  foolish-fond 
was  looking  out  of  his  blue  eyes;  and  one  could  not 
tell  whether  the  moisture  on  his  eyelashes  had  been 
caused  by  melted  ice  or  by  happy  tears. 

"You  know  how  it  is,"  he  was  saying.  "They 
are  such  little  bits  of  things."  Looking  at  Connie, 
he  broadly  smiled.  "I  guess  he  was  like  that,  too, 
when  he  was  born — awful  little.  Not  pretty,  neither 
— not  a  bit  pretty.  And  yet,  somehow  ...  I 
don't  know  .  .  .  they  make  a  man  feel  so  new 
and  different!  Seems  like  a  man  wants  to — he 
wants  to  be  kind,  wants  to  sing,  or  cry,  or  laugh. 
A  boy,  you  understand.  And  he  breathes  good,  he 
is  all  right.  The  world  is  all  made  over.  That's 
how  it  is." 

Alice  swallowed  hard  as  she  asked  yet  again: 

"The  doctor?     Is  he  all  right?" 

But  the  miracle  of  birth,  the  marvel  of  it,  the 
ecstasy  of  fatherhood,  is  something  which  cannot  take 
heed  of  such  mere  nonsense  as  a  girl's  anxiety.  The 
man  had  caught  up  the  smaller  of  the  two  little  boys. 
Connie  felt  himself  firmly  held;  he  felt  his  hair  stroked 
with  amazing  gentleness  for  a  hand  so  big,  and  rude, 
and  rough.  And  he  heard  a  strong  voice  saying: 

"Hey,  little  fella,  do  you  know  what?  I'd  like  to 
kiss  you.  But  no,  I  won't,  because — you  wouldn't 


Thanksgiving  117 

like  that.  I'm  too  much  of  a  stranger.  Fm  too 

ice-cold.  First  I  have  to How  solid  you  are! — 

I  have  to  get  thawed  out.  Solid,  yes — just  as  if 
you  were  made  of  iron.  Healthy,  strong!  Yes, 
and  he,  too,  my  own  son,  he  is  going  to  be  like  this. 
It's  a  boy." 

Taking  hold  of  the  man's  arm,  Alice  Arden  gripped 
him  with  an  earnestness  and  a  power  that  made  him 
wince. 

"Is  Doctor  North  all  right?" 

"  Yes,  he that  is "  But  still  the  man  could 

not  bring  himself  to  think  or  talk  of  anything  but  the 
strutting  glory  that  had  come  to  him.  He  gently 
pinched  the  rosy  ears  and  the  rosy  cheeks  of  the  little 
boy;  he  requested  with  a  hearty  voice  which  smote 
with  a  ringing  vibration  against  the  big  round  of  the 
dishpan  on  the  wall:  "Uncle!  call  me  Uncle,  will 
you?  Luther  is  my  name.  You  will  call  me  Uncle 
Lute.  Then,  maybe,  I  will  bring  you  a  lamb,  a 
little  baby  lamb,  that  you  can  have  for  a  pet.  How's 
that?  Do  you  want  a  lamb?" 

Abruptly  Alice  took  the  child  away  from  the  man. 
"Tell  us  about  the  doctor,"  she  insisted.  "Will 
you?" 

"I  will.  Only,  first  off,  I  better  do  something. 
Give  me  the  axe.  Where's  the  shovel?  Clear  a 
path  to  the  stable,  cut  wood,  do  the  chores.  After 
ward  talk,  tell  everything." 

"No,"  she  commanded,  "let  it  be  now.  Tell  me 
now." 

"It's  all  right,"  he  assured  her.  "Don't  you  get 
scared  and  fidget.  Some  frost  bites,  of  course. 
His  feet,  they'll  swell  on  him;  they're  going  to  be 


n8  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

awful  sore.  A  pity,  so  it  was,  to  cut  off  his  boots;  a 
shame!  Such  fine  boots.  Eighteen  dollars  he  paid 
for  them.  But  what  else  could  I  do?  Simply  had  to 
come  off.  Pack  his  feet  in  snow — that  was  the  thing. 
In  bad  shape.  That's  a  fact.  Pretty  bad.  All  night 
long  (it  was  six  in  the  morning  when  the  baby  was 
born),  all  night  long  I  had  to  work  and  grease  and 
rub  to  get  the  frost  out.  Fingers  on  one  hand  nipped 
a  little,  not  much,  nothing  so  bad  that  he  couldn't 
do  his  doctoring.  'It's  a  mercy/  says  he,  'that 
she's  young.  Everything  is  going  to  be  all  right.' 
There,  now,  that's  what  he's  like.  Not  thinking  of 
himself.  All  frozen  up,  that-away,  but  thinking 

only  about  his  patient.  Whew,  what  a  man! 

Give  me  the  axe.  Where's  the  shovel?" 

"He  reached  you,  then,  before  the  big  wind  came 
on?" 

"Before?  Why,  no,  that's  not  it;  not  that  way  at 
all.  He  got  plum  off  the  trail,  in  the  wind  and  the 
snow  blowing.  His  gun,  his  six-shooter — lucky 
thing  he  had  his  six-shooter." 

"You  heard  him  shooting?" 

"No,  mom,  we  didn't  hear.  But  something 
chipped  the  edge  of  a  crock  on  a  high  shelf.  Grit  fell 
down  on  my  hand.  Milk  pans  jangled.  Another 
bullet!  Then  I  got  a  notion  that  I  heard  a  voice 
strangulatin '  in  the  storm.  Yes.  Seemed  like 
somebody,  right  under  the  floor,  miles  deep,  was 
blattin'  like  a  sick  sheep." 

"And  you  risked  searching  for  him!" 

"Found  him.  When  the  storm  got  to  gaspin' 
for  breath  I  could  sometimes  hear  him  plain.  Found 
him — yes.  His  horse  was  down.  They  was  snug- 


Than  ks  giving  119 

gled  up  tight,  the  best  way  they  could,  to  keep  each 
other  warm,  him  and  his  horse.  He  didn't  know,  he 
said — couldn't  quite  make  out  whether  the  light  in 
our  windows  was  a  sure-nuff  light  or  not." 

"To  get  him,"  Alice  began,  with  an  awed  hush 
coming  into  her  voice,  "to  get  him  you  risked  more 
than  the  storm.  You  risked  being  shot.  He  might 
not  have  seen  you.  He  might  have  kept  on  shoot- 
ing." 

"No,  he  heard  me.  He  answered;  and  then 

Excuse  me.  I  better  fetch  in  some  wood.  I  stand 
and  talk;  I'm  windy;  I  don't  do  anything.  But, 
you  understand,  it's  the  first  one.  Our  first  baby. 
It's  a  boy." 

He  laughed,  flung  off  his  buffalo  coat,  seized  the 
shovel  and  axe,  but  forgot  to  pick  up  his  mittens. 
And  when  these  furry  coverings  for  the  hands  were 
given  to  him  by  Florence,  he  was  still  so  exuberant 
that  he  held  them  and  looked  at  them,  and  did  not 
seem  to  know  what  in  the  world  to  do  with  them. 
But  he  did  know  how  to  work.  In  a  whirlwind  of 
energy,  a  veritable  fury  of  friendly  performances,  he 
toiled,  sang,  and  sometimes  yelled  like  a  prankish 
boy. 

Eagerly  the  children  watched  him,  opening  peep 
holes  in  the  frost-ferns  of  the  panes  by  melting  the 
gray  whorls  and  jagged  leaves  with  their  breath 
and  with  their  warm  palms. 

Alice  Arden  did  not  look  out.  Motionless  she 
stood — motionless,  wide-eyed,  with  hands  tightly 
clasped.  It  was  even  some  time  before  she  smiled 
with  the  solemn  joy  that  had  come  to  her. 

Then,  attracted  by  a  voice  quietly  murmuring, 


I2O  Wine  6*  the  Winds 

Florence  turned  to  look;  but  could  neither  under 
stand  that  lit  glory  of  her  aunt's  face  nor  the  words 
that  were  like  a  prayer  of  some  sort,  a  thanksgiving 
incoherently  fervent. 

"Birth,"    Alice    was    saying.     "New    life.     Aye, 
and  a  hard  birth  it  has  been.     The  valley  of  the 

shadow For  love's  sake,  for  humanity  he  has 

fought    his    fight Birth.     Life.     Good    years 

coming.  The  Lord  has  not  forgotten  us.  He  has 
blessed  us  and  kept  us;  the  Lord  has  been  merciful 
unto  us!" 


PART  IV 
DEATH 


CHAPTER  I 

Wedding  Guests 

WINTER  had  passed,  and  spring;  and  now 
the  month  of  brides  was  blossoming. 
In  these  wonder  days  of  June  Alice  Arden 
and  Harry  North  jointly  received  a  much-prized 
letter  (one  more  urgently  candid  than  ever  before) 
from  their  fatherly  friend,  old  Doctor  Malcolm. 
Thus  it  began: 

Such  good  news  to  hear  that  Hal  has  at  last  really 
buckled  to,  as  I  have  long  been  hoping  he  might!  But 
what  about  the  wedding? 

What,  indeed?  No  matter  how  devoutly  Harry 
North  may  have  desired  to  bring  himself  to  plain 
speaking,  how  was  he  to  overcome  his  diffidence? 
He  durst  not  have  the  presumption  to  claim  the 
felicity  which  his  venerable  friend  had  here  so  boldly 
named.  "What  about  the  wedding?"  There  it 
was,  without  prelude  or  apology,  quite  as  though 
he  were  a  man  of  unblemished  probity,  in  every  way 
fit  to  be  mated  with  the  woman  whose  fineness  so 
humbled  him  that,  being  face  to  face  with  her,  he 
was  not  one  to  speak  of  marriage.  Now  it  was  spoken 
for  him.  "Wedding"  was  the  word,  and  boldly  the 
old  doctor's  letter  admonished: 

123 


124  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

I  beg  of  you  not  to  put  it  off.  If  only  I  were  there  I 
think  I  should  bully  you  into  it  at  once.  I  ought,  per 
haps,  to  be  starting  West  right  away;  but,  somehow,  I  do 
not  feel  quite  up  to  it.  Nothing,  of  course,  is  really  wrong 
with  me,  except  my  usual  bad  temper.  Your  cousin 
Hattie,  my  dear  Alice,  makes  of  herself  no  end  of  a  nui 
sance  in  trying  to  safeguard  my  health.  As  my  house 
keeper  she  grows  more  and  more  tyrannical  every  day.  I 
do  believe  she  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  age  is  be 
ginning  to  tell  on  me.  She  is  wrong,  surely;  and  how  I 
do  hate  being  bossed  by  a  woman! 

But  if  she  is  in  the  least  right  about  it,  I  can  tell  the 
two  of  you  what  it  is  that  would  give  back  to  me  my 
youth.  It  would  be  the  news  that  the  wedding  chest  had 
been  opened,  and  that  all  the  pretty  things  sleeping  there 
had  at  last  been  worn.  I  remember,  my  dear,  how  de 
licious  it  was  to  have  you  show  me  some  of  them,  and  to 
watch  you  blush  over  those  that  I  was  not  to  see. 

Well,  they  have  been  made  this  long  while,  all  those 
dainty  garments,  and  I  know  how  very  tired  they  are  of 
always  lying  in  that  chest.  They  have  had  to  wait  long 
— too  long.  How  can  you,  if  you  love  me,  have  the  heart 
to  make  them  wait  much  longer? 

Oh,  boy  and  girl,  you  who  have  been  as  son  and 
daughter  to  me,  let  me  tell  you  this:  when  finally  my  time 
shall  come,  the  grave,  I  am  sure,  will  be  less  dark  to  me 
if  only  I  may  know  that  the  two  of  you  have  crossed  the 
threshold  into  the  kind  of  married  life  which  I  myself 
found  useful  and  good. 

Now,  Winifred  Barton  and  her  father,  upon  being 
invited  to  the  wedding,  understood,  not  ungratefully, 
the  deference  shown  them.  It  was  Alice  herself  who 
had  bidden  these  special  guests.  She  had  done  more 
than  that.  With  the  generosity  of  large  natures  she 


Wedding  Guests  125 

had  spoken  her  ungrudging  thanks  to  the  drover's 
daughter  for  her  share  in  the  service  of  restoring 
Doctor  North  to  his  profession. 

"But  he  ought  to  laugh  more/'  Winifred  had 
strangely  answered,  afterward  adding  that  the 
children  were  good  for  that.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"they  help,  they  make  fun  for  him."  A  singular 
wistfulness  had  looked  out  of  her  dark  eyes.  One 
could  fancy  them  to  be  saying:  "Some  day  there 
will  be  children  of  his  own.  You,  not  I,  will  mother 
them.  And  they  will  make  fun  for  him." 

Often  Alice  used  to  wonder  whether  this  could  be 
the  true  meaning  of  the  surrendering  pathos  of 
Winnie  Barton's  face.  Obviously  the  girl  had 
changed.  She  was  more  subdued  than  in  the  earlier 
days  of  her  residence  in  the  settlement,  yet  it  well 
might  be  that  the  prolonged  illness  and  hopelessness 
of  her  father's  case  had  finally  wrought  this  effect. 
Her  fondness  for  the  North  brothers  was  nothing  she 
had  cared  to  conceal;  but  whether  her  partiality  was 
more  for  the  one  man  than  for  the  other  Alice  could 
do  no  better  than  surmise. 

As  for  Hugh  Barton  himself,  he  regarded  the 
wedding  invitation  in  the  light  of  "a  right  friendly 
thing."  He  even  declared,  with  unctuous  joviality, 
that  "if  it's  something  to  be  done  showy,  I'll  be  the 
one  to  give  the  bride  away.  Of  course,"  he  went  on, 
"it  would  be  the  place  of  your  old  friend,  Cap  Harris, 
to  do  that;  but  he  won't  hardly  make  the  riffle,  I 
reckon,  being  gone  back  East  on  business,  with  his 
wife  along." 

It  was  unlikely  that  either  Mrs.  Harris  or  her  hus 
band  would  return  to  Tecon  City  in  time  for  the 


126  Wine  o    the  Winds 

wedding.  Neither  could  Hugh  Barton  count  on 
himself  as  one  certain  to  attend  the  ceremony. 
He  even  said  to  Alice: 

"I  hardly  think,  my  dear,  that  I  can  make  it. 
Nice,  though,  to  be  asked.  Weddings,"  he  repeated, 
"I  like  them.  Christenings,  too." 

He  went  on  to  say  that  the  notions  Bible  people 
had  rigged  up  in  regard  to  heaven  were  "enough  to 
gravel  a  body.  No  givings  in  marriage — pah! 
Now  me,  if  I  was  ever  to  land  in  that  kind  of  a  better 
world,  I  tell  you  what  I'd  do:  I'd  emigrate.  But 
I  could  stand  it  all  right,  maybe,  if  I  could  have 
Winnie  along,  with  her  guitar,  so  that  she  and  her 
mother  could  sing  together  the  foolish  little  Spanish 
songs  that  always  get  a  body  to  feeling  sorta  mellow." 

Something  gentle  had  come  into  his  voice.  One 
understood  that  he  really  wanted  to  go  to  the  wed 
ding,  in  order  that  his  youth  might  be  revived  in  him, 
and  all  the  fine,  life-long  memories.  With  fondling 
endearment  he  lifted  the  bride's  hand,  pressing  it 
first  to  his  cheek  and  then  to  his  lips.  But  luck,  he 
was  afraid,  would  be  against  him.  He  couldn't  get 
around  much  any  more.  Too  bad.  Awfully  sorry 
it  had  to  be  so. 

Winifred,  on  the  contrary,  thought  that  she  at 
least  would  be  able  to  go.  If  her  father's  condition 
permitted;  if  he  did  not  have  another  of  those  back 
sets  which  could  never  be  foreseen,  she  most  surely 
would  attend  the  marriage  service.  Yes,  and  serve 
as  bridesmaid.  Be  glad  to.  She  courageously  an 
nounced  that  she  would  be  glad. 

Yet  when  the  day  and  the  hour  actually  came  to 
leave  for  the  minister's  house,  in  company  with  Victor 


"'A  sweet  woman/  she  was  murmuring.     'Beautiful. 
And  kind.'" 


Wedding  Guests  127 

North,  she  was  not  ready  to  go.  He  arrived  promptly 
at  the  time  appointed.  Fashionably  arrayed  in 
maroon  trousers,  varnished  boots,  and  a  wide-skirted 
coat  of  blue  broadcloth,  he  carried  himself  with  a 
martial  port,  with  walking  stick  suggesting  that  it 
might  really  be  an  arm  of  defence,  a  sabre  drawn. 
There  could  indeed  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  set 
out  for  battle,  even  though  the  combat  were  to  be 
merely  another  of  those  quiet  affairs  which  human 
beings,  in  the  queer  hurlyburly  of  life,  must  now  and 
again  fight  out  within  their  own  souls. 

As  he  approached,  Winifred  did  not  rise  from  the 
doorstep.  Clad  loosely  in  a  garment  of  languid  folds 
whose  original  hue,  possibly  a  rich  wine  colour,  had 
dulled  in  the  course  of  many  washings  to  warm  tones 
of  russet  and  faded  rose,  she  seemed  quite  uncon 
scious  of  her  negligee.  Bare  feet  she  had  thrust  into 
Indian  moccasins  of  soft  leather  which  harmonized 
well  with  the  half-buttoned  wrapper  but  contrasted 
oddly  with  the  foam-fall  of  laces  adorning  with 
fragile  daintiness  the  lower  part  of  a  festal  petticoat. 
With  head  resting  against  a  door-post,  the  hands  of 
the  girl  clasped  a  bended  knee,  and  the  flowing 
sleeves  of  the  wrapper  left  ungarmented  the  sculp 
tural  grace  of  the  arms,  faultless  in  their  curves  and 
whitely  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Brush  and  comb  lay 
beside  her,  the  luxuriant  mass  of  hair  spreading  wide 
in  black-blue  fluffiness  over  her  right  shoulder  and 
bosom. 

The  doorstep  was  not  a  shaded  place.  Winifred 
sat  in  the  sun,  for  she  was  of  those  who  do  not  hide 
their  sorrow  in  a  darkened  room.  Immobile  in  the 
broad,  bright,  naked  light  of  day,  she  must  have 


128  Wine  o    the  Winds 

realized  in  a  bemused  fashion,  as  in  a  dream,  that 
she  was  no  longer  alone,  and  idly  she  plucked  to 
gether  the  upper  part  of  the  unbuttoned  wrapper. 

Vaguely  she  knew  who  it  was  that  had  come; 
but  she  went  on  sitting  there,  very  still,  and  very 
beautiful,  quite  as  though  a  mesmeric  spell  might 
have  been  wrought  upon  her  by  the  silence,  by  the 
warm  air,  the  blue  sky,  and  the  clear  June  brilliancy 
of  the  day.  Victor  was  to  have  no  quirks  from  her, 
no  playful  nonsense,  no  humorous  oddities  of  speech. 
"Making  fun"  she  had  been  wont  to  call  it;  only 
her  readiness  for  making  fun  was  not  for  such  a  time 
as  this.  She  seemed  to  be  looking  out  yonder, 
distantly  looking  into  the  colourless  films,  the  thin 
ripples  of  heat  everywhere  a-quiver  over  far  field 
and  dozing  meadow. 

Absently  prodding  the  ground  with  his  walking 
stick,  the  young  man  finally  observed: 

"It's  almost  time." 

Winifred  looked  at  him.  Laces  at  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  more  rapidly,  as  if  this  frost-bound  moodi- 
ness  of  hers  had  now,  finally,  been  thawed. 

Who  was  this  man?  Oh,  yes — Victor!  He  had 
come  for  her.  She  was  to  go  away  with  him  to  a 
wedding,  to  be  bridesmaid,  and  he  to  serve  as  grooms 
man. 

Winifred  brought  herself  to  smile.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  never  seen  dark  eyes  so  wonderfully 
bright  as  these  now  gazing  at  him  in  a  kind  of  awed 
astonishment. 

"Almost  time,"  he  had  said.  Time  to  go — he 
must  mean  that.  She  spoke  of  it  as  one  who  ponders 
something  quite  unusual: 


Wedding  Guests  129 

"You,  then — you  are  really  going!0 

In  baffled  perplexity  she  looked  him  over,  from  top 
to  toe,  and  the  hush  of  surprise  was  in  her  voice  as 
she  added:  "Going?"  But,  of  course,  he  would. 
Victor  heard  her  telling  him  so. 

"And,"  she  said,  "it's  nice.  It's  like  you.  A 
good  heart.  I  know  you  would  never  want  to  bring 
her  any  unhappiness." 

Again  Winifred  fell  silent.  Again  she  gazed  long 
into  the  far  quiver  of  colourless  heat;  and  when  she 
spoke  once  more  it  almost  seemed  as  if  her  words 
came  from  out  yonder,  out  of  that  hush  and  loneliness 
and  bright  vacancy. 

"  A  sweet  woman,"  she  was  murmuring.  "  Beauti 
ful.  And  kind.  You  do  right,  Victor,  to  love  her, 
and  be  good  to  her." 

"I?"  he  questioned,  still  prodding  the  ground  with 
his  stick.  "What  makes  you  say  that?  What  in 
the  world  makes  you  think ?" 

The  gazer  into  space  did  not  hear  him.  That  im 
mensity  of  emptiness,  where  impalpable  heat 
waves  continued  so  tediously  a-throb,  seemed  once 
more  to  have  wrought  upon  her  its  spell  of  torpor 
and  aching  lassitude.  But  she  spoke  again,  with  a 
voice  altogether  firm  and  quiet: 

"He  will  be  her  husband.  It  is  not  to  be  pre 
vented.  It's  fate.  And  we  must  be  content." 

As  if  in  ominous  answer  to  what  she  said,  brief 
rustlings  huskily  startled  the  silence  of  the  cabin. 
A  fitful  sequence  of  those  rustlings  came  from  the 
dusky  interior  of  the  sod  house.  Were  they,  perhaps, 
the  stir  of  someone  moving  about  on  a  shuck  mat 
tress?  Of  someone  sitting  up  and  then  remaining 


130  Wine  o    the  Winds 

very  still,  the  better  to  listen  to  what  was  here  being 
said? 

"He,  your  father,"  Victor  muttered,  "not  well 
enough,  I  suppose — I  mean,  he's  not  going,  is  he?" 

"What?"  she  asked.  She  had  heard,  but  her 
numbed  faculties  had  a  struggle  to  get  at  his  meaning. 
Victor,  she  knew,  had  mentioned  her  father,  and  she 
held  herself  to  the  task  of  talking  about  him,  of 
articulating  words  which  she  must  have  supposed 
to  be  in  answer  to  the  young  man's  question.  "Tak 
ing  a  little  nap.  He  has  to.  Likes  to  keep  up,  but — 
takes  naps.  Tires  easily." 

She  did  not  turn  her  head  to  gaze  into  the  darkened 
interior  of  the  cabin  which  had  been  partitioned 
into  two  compartments  by  figured  calico;  but  she 
went  on  speaking  of  her  father,  she  mentioned 
trifles,  she  seemed  to  cling  to  this  topic,  or  to  any 
ordinary  topic  which  might  help  a  little  to  crowd 
out  all  thought  of  this  day's  notable  event. 

"Asleep,"  she  again  repeated,  and  stopped  short, 
realizing  at  last  how  she  must  have  been  saying  over, 
very  stupidly,  the  same  things. 

Since  her  dull  state  had  prevented  her  from  hear 
ing  the  stir  of  the  husk  mattress,  she  might  well 
suppose  her  father  to  be  sound  asleep.  But  it  was 
not  so.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  Hugh  Barton  been 
more  acutely,  more  strangely  and  purposefully,  wide 
awake. 


CHAPTER  II 

Ministerial  Delay 

SINCE  pioneer  etiquette  gives  sanction  to  the 
entering  of  a  house,  even  though  no  one  may 
be  there  to  give  you  welcome,  the  bridal  com 
pany  did  not  long  keep  itself  waiting  on  the  clergy 
man's  doorstep. 

It  could  only  be  regarded  as  a  circumstance  a 
little  embarrassing  that  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  John 
Waterson  should  be  in  Omaha,  to  attend  a  district 
meeting  of  the  Women's  Aid  Society.  As  for  her 
husband  (a  man  who  even  neglected  his  meals,  now 
that  there  was  no  one  at  home  to  remind  him  of 
them)  is  it  properly  to  be  said  of  him  that  he  had 
forgotten  his  hymeneal  appointment? 

No,  not  at  all.  He  had  not  forgotten.  But  when 
one  is  labouring  for  the  Lord,  not  merely  in  a  priestly 
and  spiritual  sense,  but  literally,  among  chips  and 
shavings  and  sawdust,  with  nails  in  his  mouth  and  a 
song  of  praise  in  his  soul,  he  may,  of  course,  be  one  of 
those  ecstatic  workmen  who  simply  take  no  ac 
count  of  how  treacherously  the  minutes  have  been 
slipping  by. 

So,  in  his  temporary  absence,  the  bride  and  groom 
and  guests  accommodated  themselves  to  the  situa 
tion  by  tenanting  the  rectory. 

The  regrets  of  the  Bartons  had  been  conveyed  by 

131 


1 32  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

Victor.  Winifred  was  sorry.  The  smooth-shaven 
face  of  the  young  man  assumed  rather  a  wooden 
inflexibility  as  he  said  so. 

"Her  father — not  so  well — failing.  Thought  she 
had  better  stay  with  him.  Had  started  to  dress,  and 
then She's  awfully  sorry." 

Victor  himself,  with  a  mien  abnormally  sedate, 
appeared  something  less  than  overjoyed.  All  the 
way  along  to  the  minister's  house  he  had  preserved  a 
solemn,  let-me-get-through-with-this  determination; 
but  an  inner  restlessness  now  betrayed  itself  by  the 
avidity  with  which  he  welcomed  the  self-proposed 
errand  of  going  to  investigate  the  cause  of  the  clergy 
man's  delay.  Once  out  of  doors,  this  emissary 
walked  with  a  stride  stiffly  martial,  going  down  the 
slope  along  a  footpath  sharply  dipping  toward  the 
little  building,  the  newly  erected  church  whence 
issued  the  tap-tap-tap  of  the  hammer. 

The  ecclesiastical  carpenter  listened  politely  to 
what  was  desired  of  him,  and  with  iron  stems  brist 
ling  between  his  lips,  mumbled  "Quite  so — quite  so." 
One  by  one,  however,  these  remaining  nails  had  all 
to  be  driven  home  before  he  would  put  his  hammer 
down. 

These  pews  should  have,  he  thought,  some  applied 
ornamentation.  Black  walnut,  perhaps;  but  it 
would  have  to  be  simple.  Fie  was  not,  unfortunately, 
a  cabinet  maker.  Far  from  it.  Handy  with  tools, 
though;  always  had  been.  How  about  the  backs? 
Did  Mr.  North  regard  the  slope  of  the  pew-backs  as 
about  right? 

In  the  house  the  waiting  continued.  Florence 
looked  grave;  her  little  brothers  felt  subdued;  Arthur 


Ministerial  Delay  133 

began  to  fidget,  twiddling  on  the  window-sill  with  his 
fingers.  Once,  swallowing  hard,  he  plucked  up 
spirit  to  announce: 

"  Immigrant  wagons,  see !  All  strung  out  along  the 
road.  Waiting  for  the  ferry,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

There  can  be  nothing  harder  on  a  boy  than  to  wait 
and  wait,  with  everything  at  a  standstill. 

By  and  by  he  whispered  to  his  sister:  "If  they 
don't  get  something  started  pretty  soon,  I'm  going 
to  bolt." 

Florence  made  big  eyes  at  him,  to  show  how 
shocked  she  was. 

"Hush!"  she  enjoined.  "Don't  talk."  She  even 
tilted  her  chin  to  look  more  primly  decorous  than 
ever.  One  could  see  that  every  minute  of  the  time 
she  was  conscious  of  her  poke  bonnet  with  its  trim 
ming  of  blue  ribbon,  and  also  conscious  of  her  white- 
silk  mitts.  No  matter  that  they  made  her  little 
sun-burned  hands  look  browner  than  common,  she 
was  holding  a  lace-edged  handkerchief  with  a  most 
lady-like  air. 

"Not  talk?"  said  Arthur,  leaning  against  her 
chair.  "Why?" 

"Well,  you  mustn't.  It's  not  right.  It's  a  wed 
ding." 

In  dejected  boredom  he  now  looked  at  some  wax 
flowers,  under  glass,  a  dreary  wreath  of  them  inside  a 
frame  of  black  walnut. 

"What's  it  for?"  he  whispered. 

"To  look  nice;  to — the  same  as  a  picture — to 
look  nice." 

"Aw,  I  don't  mean  that  thing!  I  mean,  what's  a 
wedding  for?  I  can't  see  that  they're  good  for  much. 


134  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Don't  amount  to  shucks.  But  youVe  gone  on  and 
gone  on  about  this  one,  till  I  s 'posed  it  was  going  to 
be  something." 

"Just  you  wait.  You'll  see.  And  don't  lean  so! 

You're  mussing  my  skirt After  awhile,  when  the 

minister  gets  here,  they  will  stand  up,  Dockey  North 
and  Aunt  Alice  will.  And  the  service  will  begin. 
There  will  be  reading  out  of  a  prayer-book.  We  will 
all  stand  up.  And " 

"And  what?" 

"There  will  be  a  ring.  Dockey  will  put  the  ring  on 
her  finger." 

" And  then  what?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  think  that's  about  all." 

"Thunder!"  Arthur  muttered.  "I'd  ruther  go 
swimming,  any  day,  than  have  a  wedding!" 

Connie,  however,  was  not  so  out  of  sorts  about  it; 
for  as  yet  nobody  had  ordered  him  to  come  away 
from  the  what-not.  He  looked  curiously  at  the 
things  on  the  shelves  of  that  slight  little  stand  in  the 
corner:  bits  of  petrified  wood,  a  dry  starfish,  some 
specimens  of  quartz  from  Pike's  Peak,  a  little  bear 
carved  out  of  wood,  and  some  big  shells  in  which  you 
could  hear  a  roaring  if  you  held  them  to  your  ear. 
Each  instant  the  child  had  been  expecting  somebody 
to  say:  "Don't  touch."  All  the  while  that  he  enter 
tained  himself  with  the  what-not  exhibition,  he  felt 
guilty  about  it;  he  would  have  sworn  that  it  was  a 
wrongdoing  of  some  sort.  This  feeling  is  what  made 
it  so  much  of  an  adventure.  He  handled  everything, 
he  did  it  stealthily,  all  the  while  looking  about  to  see 
when  somebody  was  going  to  stop  him. 

The  older  nephew  might  have  remained  uncheerful; 


Ministerial  Delay  135 

yet  the  look  in  the  face  of  his  Aunt  Alice  and  the 
smiling  in  her  eyes  were  enough,  somehow,  to  give 
him  a  good  feeling  in  spite  of  himself.  Oh,  yes! 
and  there  was  the  wedding  cake  to  be  considered. 
Even  a  boy  can  be  fairly  patient  if  there  is  a  wedding 
cake,  a  big  one,  glorious  with  white  icing,  a  veritable 
triumph. 

The  face  of  the  bridegroom  had  also  brightened  as 
he  went  on  looking  at  Alice.  For  how  delicious  the 
bloom  of  her  cheeks,  the  radiant  pleasure  of  her  face, 
the  kindly  and  deep  glow  of  her  heart's  rejoicing! 

Would  she  contrive,  somehow,  to  keep  little  or 
much  of  this  happiness  through  the  years  to  come? 
Would  he,  perhaps,  find  a  way  to  defend  it  and  let  her 
keep  it? — he,  who  had  brought  so  much  of  sorrow 
into  her  life!  He  felt  very  humble.  He  trembled 
lest  this  great  felicity  of  hers  should  wither  away. 
Nor  could  he  help  asking  himself  whether  it  was  fair 
to  her,  this  wedding.  Was  it  fair,  when  there  were 
so  many  better  men?  Victor,  for  instance! 

Thinking  of  this,  Doctor  North  turned  to  the 
window,  and  stood  looking  out.  And  while  he  thus 
remained,  in  that  old  mood  of  self-questioning,  he  saw 
two  men  emerging  from  the  new  church,  that  pine 
structure,  wholly  windowless,  unpainted,  and  still  in 
its  raw  state  of  weather-boarding.  The  clergyman 
and  Victor  were  coming. 

In  the  road  a  third  person — doubtless  a  belated 
wedding  guest — had  also  appeared,  and  was  begin 
ning,  with  laborious  effort,  to  ascend  the  hill  toward 
the  minister's  house. 


CHAPTER  III 

Grim  Gallantry 

BY  ATTENTIVE  hearkening  to  what  Victor 
North   and  Winnie  had  said  to  each  other, 
her   father   had  not  missed  the  chief  point. 
She  would  not  serve  as  bridesmaid;  she  refused  to 
attend  the  marriage  service. 

Not  going,  eh?  Could  it  be  possible?  After  all 
the  fuss,  and  sewing,  and  getting  her  flummery 
things  ready  for  the  wedding,  then  to  turn  right 
around,  at  the  last  moment,  and  decide  not  to  go! 
Por  Dios !  where  was  her  pride  ? 

Hugh  Barton  stirred  on  the  husk  mattress.  He 
thought:  "I'll  get  up.  I'll  have  it  out  with  Winnie. 
She'll  go  to  that  wedding." 

Even  while  Victor  North  was  talking  with  her,  the 
girl's  father  had  been  minded  to  give  Winifred  the 
berating  he  thought  she  deserved.  But  later  would 
do.  By  and  by  he  would  see  whether  a  daughter 
of  his  should  so  lack  pluck! 

Yet  having  hobbled  angrily  to  the  door,  and  looked 
at  her,  his  disgust  turned  suddenly  into  a  fatherly 
impulse  to  get  his  arms  around  her,  and  comfort  her, 
and  let  her  cry  as  hard  as  ever  she  wanted  to  cry, 
with  her  face  against  his  shoulder,  as  sometimes 
used  to  happen,  years  ago,  when  she  was  only  a 
little  girl. 

136 


Grim  Gallantry  137 

Here  she  sat,  as  when  Victor  North  had  left;  here, 
motionless  in  the  sun,  her  head  still  leaning  back 
against  the  door-post,  and  hands  laxly  a-droop  in  the 
fragile  laces  of  her  lap. 

One  glimpse  of  her  was  enough.  Hugh  Barton 
knew  she  was  not  to  be  a  bridesmaid,  that  she  was  not 
to  be  got  to  the  wedding. 

What  then?  Why,  then,  he  himself  must  go. 
He  must  let  them  see — the  dear  boy  and  his  bride — 
that  Hugh  Barton  wished  them  well.  He  really 
did.  Despite  the  heartbreak  which  the  wedding 
had  brought  to  the  one  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world, 
these  were  people  to  deserve  well  wishing.  And 
must  have  it! 

But  how  get  away  from  here?  Winnie  would 
stop  him.  She  had  grown  to  be  such  a  tyrant  in 
watching  over  him,  his  poor  dear  Winnie! 

He  began  moving  about,  making  sundry  thumping 
noises  as  when  a  man  draws  on  his  boots.  Then,  hav 
ing  craftily  emptied  out  his  medicine  bottle,  he  in 
veighed  against  the  smallness  of  the  bottle.  Devil 
take  the  thing,  always  getting  empty! 

"But,  Winnie/'  he  said,  "you're  not  dressed  for 
going  to  the  drug  shop."  Well,  never  mind,  then; 
never  mind.  He  would  go.  The  cut-off  billiard 
cue,  used  for  a  walking  stick,  went  tapping  about 
very  smartly. 

By  and  by  he  came  hobbling  from  the  house,  and 
with  the  staff  helping  him,  cautiously  eased  himself 
down  from  the  doorstep. 

Winifred  must  surely  have  noticed  a  tell-tale  odd- 
ness  in  his  manner  if  her  dark  eyes  had  not  been  so 
empty  of  vision.  She  looked  at  nothing,  saw  nothing, 


138  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

not  even  the  vast  indifference  of  fields  and  hills 
and  the  lonely,  light-drenched  distance. 

The  strangest  thing  about  her  father  was  that  he 
had  cloaked  himself  with  a  bright-hued  Mexican 
serape,  precisely  as  though  he  might  be  going  into 
winter  weather  instead  of  passing  out  here  into  the 
clear  brightness,  the  scented  warmth  of  mellow  earth, 
and  fresh  meadows,  and  wild  June  roses  blossoming. 
He  contrived  to  get  quite  past  his  daughter  before 
she  brought  herself  to  make  listless  inquiry: 

"Where  you  going,  dear?" 

"Drug  store,"  he  mumbled  with  a  shiver,  as  if  an 
iciness  had  got  into  his  blood.  It  may  have  been 
that  he  felt  cold,  or  it  may  only  have  been  through 
habit  that  he  had  wrapped  himself  with  this  capa 
cious  shawl.  "Exercise,"  he  added.  "Be  right 
back." 

She  should  have  observed  his  face.  Why  that 
flushed  hue,  purplish  and  excessive? 

"You  mustn't,"  she  mildly  interdicted,  but  did  not 
rouse  herself  to  further  protest.  Yet  was  it  well,  all 
this  eager  exertion  of  his  ?  Why  go  pushing  and  prod 
ding  along  like  that? — so  very  fast,  with  his  crippled 
leg  dragging  over  the  ground  at  a  pace  quite  remark 
able?  All  his  struggling  efforts  confessed  a  fear  that 
his  daughter  might  overtake  him  and  try  to  hold  him 
back. 

Once  he  paused.  Abruptly  halting  in  the  road,  he 
looked  back — looked  wistfully  back,  and  even  kissed 
his  hand  to  her;  but  still  emptily  gazing  into  space, 
his  Winifred  made  no  response. 

As  he  hobbled  forward  he  once  dropped  his  walking 
stick;  and  a  long,  panting  labour  had  to  be  gone 


Grim  Gallantry  139 

through  in  order  to  recover  that  necessary  cane. 
Again,  the  empty  bottle  slipped  from  him. 

Smartly  the  thing  hit  the  ground,  and  having 
splintered  all  to  pieces,  it  lay  there  like  a  great  shower 
of  tears,  brightly  a-sparkle  in  the  sun. 

"No  matter,"  Barton  gasped,  and  his  teeth  gritted. 

He  must  have  realized,  suddenly,  his  own  strange 
ness,  and  like  a  drunkard  he  assumed  a  fantastic 
dignity.  Only  his  loftiness  was  less  absurd  than 
ghastly.  Under  the  ragged  gray  of  his  moustache 
his  blue  lips  had  begun  to  twitch  with  curious  jerk- 
ings.  He  gravely  and  gently  spoke  the  words: 
"Yes — yes!"  as  if  his  daughter,  whom  he  fancied 
to  be  walking  beside  him,  had  been  gently  assuring 
him:  "Here  I  am,  Father.  I  will  never  leave  you." 

But  she  need  not  suppose  he  would  be  going  back 
home  with  her.  He  kept  stalking  along,  persistently 
dragging  himself  forward.  Once  in  view  of  the  un- 
painted  and  windowless  little  church  a  spurt  of 
desperate  strength  seemed  to  come  flooding  into  him; 
he  was  like  a  grotesque  spectre,  as  he  went  flounder 
ing  off  up  the  slope  in  hobbling,  painful  haste. 

Of  those  in  the  minister's  house,  Doctor  North  was 
first  to  behold  this  belated  wedding  guest;  and  in 
stantly,  as  the  eccentric  figure  with  the  bright-hued 
serape  began  its  laboured  and  fantastic  ascent,  the 
young  man  rushed  out  to  call  solicitously: 

"Careful,  Hugh!  Not  so  fast.  Come  slowly — 
slowly!" 

The  grizzled  guest,  heaving  and  panting,  gasped 
out  the  question: 

"Ami     .     .     .     in  time?" 

Close  behind  the  doctor  Alice  had  appeared;  and 


140  Wine  o    the  Winds 

at  once  Hugh  Barton  paid  her  the  respect  of  a  salute. 
He  bowed  gallantly,  giving  his  battered  hat  a  wide 
and  ceremonious  sweep,  down  to  his  knees. 

"In  time?"  he  puffily  questioned  once  again,  with 
Doctor  North  supporting  him  by  the  arm.  "Am 
I  in  time?" 

Soothingly  the  bridegroom  answered: 

"You're  not  too  late.  No,  indeed.  He's  coming 
now.  I  mean,  the  minister.  We've  been  waiting 
for  him.  See,  Victor  is  bringing  him." 

"Well,  then,"  the  stricken  man  droned  heavily, 
"in  time!" 

Instantly  he  collapsed.  He  went  limp  all  over  and 
sank,  falling  as  a  blanket  falls.  The  supporting  arms 
of  the  young  man  eased  him  to  the  ground,  and  when 
the  shaggy  head  lay  resting  against  Doctor  North's 
knee,  with  the  shirt-collar  rent  open  to  give  a  chance 
for  freer  breathing,  Winifred's  father  did  not  struggle 
in  the  least.  He  lay  there  in  the  green  grass,  his 
crippled  arm  and  leg  woefully  twisted  awry,  while 
the  warm  June  sunshine  went  on  smiling  warmly 
down  into  the  deathly  quiet  of  his  face. 

He  still  lived.  By  the  faint  flutter  of  his  eyelids 
one  could  see  that  he  did. 

Alice  had  brought  a  pitcher  of  water  from  the  house, 
for  even  in  a  crisis  such  as  this  she  would  be  one  to 
keep  her  presence  cf  mind.  With  a  wet  handkerchief— 
a  dainty  thing  of  fragile  lace,  her  bride's  handkerchief, 
she  began  wiping  the  gray  face  and  the  pallid  lips. 

Hugh  Barton,  even  in  the  fading  twilight  of  his 
faculties,  seemed  to  know  very  well  who  she  was.  His 
mouth  moved,  he  was  trying  to  speak,  he  actually  did 
contrive  to  make  his  gasping  breaths  understood: 


Grim  Gallantry  141 

"Death  at  a  wedding.     .     .     .     Forgive." 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  but  laboured  still 
to  be  heard.  A  few  words,  foreign  words,  a  phrase 
of  Spanish  courtesy  must  have  been  meant  for  her. 

"I  kiss  your  hands/*  he  said,  and  repeated  it  a 
second  time:  "I  kiss  your  hands." 

Then — silence. 

The  minister,  summoned  for  a  wedding  service, 
could  now  do  no  more  than  speak  gently  a  solemn 
liturgy  for  the  dead. 

"Man  walketh  in  a  vain  shadow,  and  disquieteth 
himself  in  vain.  He  cometh  up,  and  is  cut  down  like 
a  flower." 

Thus  it  befell  that  in  a  few  strokes  of  a  builder's 
hammer,  a  short  while  only  had  been  given  time  for 
the  arrival  of  this  grim  guest,  who  had  indeed  come 
in  time.  Yes,  amply  in  time — to  spoil  everything! 


CHAPTER  IV 

Lies! 

BEFORE  the  praying  of  the  minister  began, 
Alice  and  Harry  North  drew  aside  for  a  brief 
bit  of  council  to  determine  whether  this  ser 
vice  for  the  dead  should  be  followed  presently  by  the 
marriage  service.  It  was  the  opinion  of  the  bride 
groom  that — 

"Awhile  later,  perhaps,  we  could.  .  .  .  But 
shall  we?  A  much  happier  day,  my  dear,  I  would 
like  to  have  for  our  wedding." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  then  at  her  lace-edged 
handkerchief,  formerly  so  light  and  dainty,  and  now 
but  a  sodden  thing,  all  crumpled  and  wet,  with  the 
dew  of  death  upon  it. 

"Some  other  day,"  she  began,  and  pressed  her 
lower  lip  between  her  teeth.  "Well,  yes,"  she  added. 
"I  suppose  it's  best." 

Would  she,  he  inquired,  be  the  one  to  take  the  news 
to  Hugh  Barton's  daughter?  Or  should  it  be  Victor? 

"He  or  I  could  do  it,"  Alice  conceded.  "But  no, 
Hal,  I  think  you  had  better  be  the  one  to  let  her  know 
what  has  happened.  Her  father  liked  you  so  much, 
and  you  will  know  how  to  do  the  thing  tactfully." 

Unenviable  as  the  mission  might  be,  Harry  North 
started  away  at  once,  going  off  with  long  strides; 
and  as  it  turned  out,  the  one  whom  he  had  gone  to 

142 


Lies !  143 

seek  remained  precisely  in  the  place  where  Victor 
had  left  her.  She  had  not  moved  from  the  doorstep. 
An  oblique  shadow  of  the  house,  broadening  by  slow 
degrees,  had  at  last  enveloped  her;  and  now,  per 
fectly  impassive,  she  inclined  forward,  with  head 
so  a-droop  that  one  might  have  fancied  it  pulled 
down  by  the  regal  wealth  of  hair  black-purple  in 
its  trailing  mass. 

Only  when  Harry  North  had  drawn  near  and 
spoken  her  name  did  the  slow  conviction  reach  Wini 
fred  that  she  was  no  longer  alone. 

That  voice! 

Her  head  slowly  lifted,  she  listened,  and  a  pallid 
arm  raised  itself  to  put  aside  from  her  face  the  dark- 
mantling  cloud 'of  rumpled  hair. 

"You?"  she  questioned;  and  then,  having  ac 
cepted  the  unlikely  circumstance  of  his  presence,  as 
one  accepts  the  remarkable  happenings  of  a  dream, 
she  quietly  added:  "You,  then!" 

Had  he  sprung  up  out  of  the  ground  or  dropped 
from  the  sky,  she  would  scarce  have  been  concerned 
with  the  manner  of  his  coming.  Enough  that  he 
was  here! 

Now  that  he  had  her  attention,  North  looked  down 
into  her  museful  eyes — looked,  and  stood  silent. 

It  remained  for  her  to  end  the  long  silence.  She 
asked  simply  and  directly,  with  the  voice  he  had  been 
used  to  hearing: 

"Is  it  all  over?" 

He  deliberately  answered: 

"It  is  over." 

Bravely  responsive,  she  at  once  brought  herself  to 
her  feet;  and  standing  very  erect,  did  not  shirk  the 


144  Wine  o    the  Winds 

thing  courteous  to  do.  She  smiled.  She  put  forth 
her  hand. 

"I,"  she  said,  "congratulate  you." 

He  took  her  hand  between  both  of  his  and  pressed 
it  firmly;  but  seeing  how  greatly  she  had  mistaken 
what  he  meant,  he  stood  mute  for  a  time. 

"The  wedding/'  he  presently  began,  and  cleared 
his  throat,  "the  wedding,  Winnie,  has  been  post 
poned/* 

Baffled  wonderment  came  into  her  eyes.  "What ? " 
she  asked,  and  when  told  a  second  time  that  the 
nuptial  service  had  not  been  held,  she  still  kept  her 
look  of  mystification. 

"No  wedding?     But  that  can't  be  so." 

"Conditions,"  he  went  on,  "have  been  such  that 
.  .  .  Unforeseen  circumstances.  .  .  .  Yes," 
he  insisted,  "postponed." 

A  jerky  tremor  twitched  her  hand. 

"Not  married?" 

"It  couldn't  be,"  he  answered.  "Not  to-day, 
because  something.  ...  I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  you.  .  .  .  Your  father,  Winnie.  .  .  ." 

"Couldn't  go,"  she  explained.  "Awfully  sorry, 
but  he  couldn't.  Victor  was  to  tell  you.  But  it 
seems.  .  .  .  Not  married!"  she  exclaimed. 

Astounding  fact!  But  she  grasped  it,  she  clung  to 
it.  In  her  eyes  kindled  a  gleam  which  boded  no  good 
for  this  young  man.  Hope  had  blazed  up.  Fugitive 
and  sudden,  it  was  a  wild,  crafty,  desperate  hope! 

Winifred  watched  the  moving  lips  of  Doctor  North. 
He  must  be  saying  something.  It  even  came  to  her 
that  he  was  speaking  of  her  father.  And  at  once  she 
turned  her  head,  to  call  through  the  doorway: 


Lies !  145 

"Come,  Dadums,  listen!  There's  been  no  wed 
ding.  It's  been  postponed.  Do  you  hear?  But 
why,  Hal  North,  has  it  been  postponed?" 

Eager  and  impatient,  she  stamped  her  foot  and 
started  to  call  again  to  her  father. 

"Oo,  but  he's  gone  out!"  she  exclaimed.  "How 
stupid  of  me  not  to  remember  that! — Sit  down,  Hal. 
You  must  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"But  first,  Winifred,  where  is  he?  Where's  your 
father?" 

Why,  not  home,  gone  out.  She  saw  him  go.  Yes, 
with  his  medicine  bottle,  to  the  drug  store. 

"But  tell  me,"  she  implored.  "Let  me  hear  ex 
actly  how  it  was." 

Only  he  did  not  begin  to  tell.  He  swallowed,  he 
looked  at  the  ground;  he  had  the  paleness  and  the 
reticence  of  a  man  to  whom  strange  things  have  been 
disclosed.  What  things?  The  girl  could  not  wait 
to  hear  them  told. 

"I  see  it,"  she  cried.  "You  found  out,  at  the  last 
moment,  that  she  and  your  brother.  .  .  .  But 
how  did  you  find  out?  Who  told  you?" 

"No,  Winnie,  no;  that's  not  it!" 

Startled  protest  sounded  in  North's  voice. 

"Then  what  is  it  you  mean?"  she  insisted;  and 
his  helplessness,  his  confusion  further  convinced 
her  that  the  feeling  she  had  discovered  in  Victor 
North,  the  adoring  partiality  for  Alice  Arden,  had 
somehow  been  betrayed.  When  betrayed,  and  how, 
and  by  whom — as  passionately  curious  as  Winnie 
Barton  was  to  hear  all  this,  she  hugged  to  her  soul 
the  one  amazing  fact:  the  wedding  had  been  post 
poned. 


146  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

"So,  then,"  she  exclaimed,  "the  truth  is  out!  But 
how  long  it's  taken  you  to  see  the  truth.  Deceiving 
yourself  all  this  while  that  it  was  you,  and  not  your 
brother  she  cared  for." 

"Enough!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  talk,  Miss 
Barton,  doesn't  interest  me.  I  don't  care  to  hear  it. 
I  won't  hear  it." 

"Won't  you,  though?  Well,  no  matter  now — 
now  that  you  see  what's  in  that  pinched,  puritan 
soul  of  hers.  Promised  to  marry  you.  Yes,  and 
really  did  love  you  once.  No  doubt  she  did,  but  not 
any  more.  Duty!  Love  went,  but  duty  stayed. 
She  thought  it  her  duty  to  marry  you,  instead  of 
the  man  she  really  loved." 

"Stop,  Winnie!  The  wedding  is  postponed  only 
because  your  father.  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  get  her  attention.  He  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  reason  with  the  wind,  or  to  make 
the  doorstep  understand  the  tidings  he  had  brought. 

"This  long  while,"  she  went  on,  "  you've  suspected, 
you've  almost  known  what  they  meant  to  each  other, 
those  two.  But  you  tried  not  to  believe.  Blind, 
blind — and  you  wanted  to  be  blind!  Ah,  you  men! 
It  takes  you  so  very  long  to  see  what's  in  a  woman's 
heart!  But  Victor  sees,  right  enough.  Loves  her, 
too;  always  has  loved  her.  Only  he  .  .  .  an 
other  queer  fish!  Thought  it  fine  and  honourable 
to  be  giving  her  up.  You  and  she  were  promised.) 
So,  of  course,  she  must  stand  by  her  promise.  He 
thought  that;  they  both  did.  And  they  felt  so  lofty 
and  virtuous  about  it.  Went  in  for  self-sacrifice. 
Wanted  to  make  martyrs  of  themselves.  Fools! 
The  precious  pair  of  high-minded  fanatics!" 


Lies !  147 

Could  there  be  any  truth  in  this?  Alice  to  love 
Victor!  Might  it  be  possible?  Do  such  things 
happen  ? 

Harry  North  must  have  time  to  think  of  this.  But 
not  now.  This,  surely,  was  not  the  time;  for  soon 
they  would  be  bringing  the  body.  Winifred  had  to 
be  told.  He  tried  to  recall  what  he  had  prepared  to 
say,  and  the  discreet  manner  of  saying  it,  in  order 
that  the  news  might  not  fall  as  a  stroke  too  rude  and 
brutally  abrupt. 

"Try,  Winnie,"  he  urged  with  a  beseeching  tone, 
"do  please  try  to  listen.  Your  father — it's  about 
him  I've  come  to  you.  That  he  should  suffer  so 
much  was  not,  you  know,  the  worst  thing  about  his 
case.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  would  always  have 
to  suffer.  Yes,  always." 

"He  won't  be  long,"  she  insisted,  with  thoughts 
still  fugitive.  "Be  right  back." 

"Suppose,  Winnie — suppose  your  father  were 
quite  done  with  all  the  pain  he  has  borne  so  quietly!" 
(  North  moistened  his  lips.  "You  think,"  he  began 
again,  "that  he  will  be  coming  soon.  But — no, 
Winnie,  he  won't.  Not  as  a  living  man.  His  pain 
is  all  ended.  Your  father  is  dead." 

"Dead?" 

Her  lips  went  tight  shut.  After  a  time,  when  she 
had  gazed  long  into  North's  pale  face,  she  spoke  colour 
lessly,  as  if  making  a  commonplace  announcement: 

"He  should  have  lived.  I  had  only  him.  .  .  . 
Dead,  then." 

In  the  long  pause  following  one  might  have  sup 
posed  she  was  trying  to  think  what  the  future  would 
.be  without  her  father  in  it.  But  when  she  spoke 


148  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

again,  "Not  married,"  were  the  words  she  uttered. 
"Not  married,"  she  repeated. 

She  was  told  that  her  father  had  hurried  too  fast; 
that  he  fancied  he  would  be  late.  "Too  much  of  a 
hurry,"  North  explained.  "Overtaxed  his  heart." 

The  event  now  seemed  as  something  wtiich  had 
happened  long,  long  ago,  and  to  be  a  thing  less  sorry 
than  this  other: 

"Vic — good  old  Vic  ...  he  and  Alice.  It 
might  be.  At  times  I  have  wondered,  but  never 
understood.  I  have  been  very  dense."  He  smiled 
mournfully.  "I  thank  you,  Winnie.  You  have 
opened  my  eyes.  Such  stupid  eyes!  It  must  mean 
that  they,  she  and  Vic,  have  not  wanted  to  hurt  me." 
After  a  pause  he  said  once  again:  "  I  have  been  very 
dense." 

Winnie  could  not  bear  to  look  at  him.  He  stood  so 
straight!  And  into  his  face  had  come  a  firmness 
and  gentleness  which  quite  humbled  the  girl.  All 
the  womanhood  in  her  suddenly  cried  out  in  pity 
and  in  shame. 

"You  mustn't  believe  that,"  she  pleaded.  Her 
hand  had  begun  to  stroke  his  arm  with  a  timorous 
fondling.  "Lies,  madness,"  she  was  declaring, 
"jealous  babble!  All  lies!"  North  looked  at  her, 
but  could  not  well  understand  what  she  was  saying. 
"Dead! — and  I  have  shamed  him.  With  my  lies. 
You're  not  going  to  believe  them,  though.  Eh, 
are  you?  You  mustn't.  Lies,  all  lies!" 

She  waited,  tensely  watchful  for  any  change  in 
that  still  face  of  his;  and  then,  "See,  Hal,"  she  went 
on,  with  a  hush  coming  into  her  voice,  "they  are 
bringing  him  home  now." 


Lies !  149 

It  was  true.  Six  hatless  carriers  bore  upon  their 
shoulders  the  plank  requisitioned  as  a  hearse;  and  a 
bright-hued  pall,  the  Mexican  scrape  used  as  a  cover 
ing,  described  a  curve,  with  ridges  at  head  and  foot. 
Trailing  folds,  meanwhile,  kept  up  a  slow  rippling. 
Once  a  lifeless  arm,  loosely  falling  from  the  board, 
swung  with  a  curious  limpness  until  replaced  under 
the  striped  cloth  beside  the  form  laxly  a-sway  in 
time  to  the  tread  of  men  funereally  marching. 

"Bringing  him  home,"  she  whispered;  "they  are 
bringing  home  my  father  who  is  dead.  But  I  am  not 
thinking  of  him.  It's  you,  dear  boy — I  am  thinking 
of  you.  I  want  you  to  have  your  happiness.  Go 
to  her.  She  worships  you.  Go  to  her.  Tell  her 
I  have  told  lies.  Tell  her  I  have  disgraced  my 
father's  name.  Let  her  know,  once  for  all,  that  I 
am  not  to  see  you  again." 


CHAPTER  V 

Farewell 

FUTILE  regrets!  Unavailing  effort  to  bite 
back  what  she  had  so  passionately  avowed! 
Grass  seed  that  has  been  scattered  upon  the 
ground  and  rooted  there  would  be  no  more  impossible 
to  gather  up  than  those  words  of  Winifred  Barton 
that  had  cruelly  struck  root  in  the  heart  of  Harry 
North. 

In  the  days  after  her  father's  death  he  brooded 
constantly  over  what  she  had  said  concerning  Victor 
and  Alice.  And  for  all  his  struggling  endeavour  to 
deny  the  possibility  of  their  attachment,  he  could  not 
crush  the  thought  that  Winifred,  in  her  unbridled 
moment  of  impulse,  had  ruthlessly  spoken  the  truth. 

Yet  how  suggest  to  Alice  this  desolating  suspicion  ? 
No,  the  old  adage  was  probably  right:  "Least  said, 
soonest  mended."  He  would  say  nothing.  Impossi 
ble,  in  any  case,  to  broach  now  the  subject  of  the 
postponed  wedding. 

What  Alice  was  thinking  he  could  not  fathom;  and 
the  fancy  was  ever  with  him  that  she  might  be  hoping 
for  release  from  her  betrothal.  She  seemed  more 
constrained,  he  thought,  than  ever  before.  He  slept 
badly  with  thinking  of  it,  and  finally  decided  to  go 
away. 

That  was  the  thing:  go  away.  Never  allow  her  to 

150 


Farewell 

make  the  self-sacrifice  which  a  mistaken  sense  of 
loyalty  might  require  of  her.  Depart,  say  nothing, 
behave  magnanimously. 

Having  so  decided,  he  one  evening  sat  musefully 
gazing  at  the  luminous  light-ring  outspread  under  the 
roof  above  the  tallow  dip.  And  he  heard  his  brother 
inquire: 

"Going  to  start  West,  are  you,  with  a  load  of  goods 
for  the  Pike's  Peak  country?" 

"It's  not  much  of  a  trip/'  Harry  North  answered. 
"Twenty-seven  days.  Yes,  since  I  am  running  short 
of  cash,  I  shall  soon  be  starting  West  with  a  load  of 
merchandise." 

Victor  spoke  again,  and  now,  after  a  long  pause, 
with  more  than  his  wonted  gravity: 

"Alice  doesn't  want  you  to  go." 

"  Doesn't  ?    Has  she  told  you  ? " 

This  time, speaking  with  a  tone  edged  with  asperity, 
the  elder  brother  said: 

"Don't  be  quite  an  ass.  Can't  you  see  for  your 
self  that  she  doesn't  want  you  to  go?" 

Even  had  Victor  North  striven  to  be  more  urgently 
persuasive,  he  could  have  accomplished  nothing. 
Harry  would  not  remain.  A  week  passed;  then  came 
the  day  of  his  departure. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  the  foot-path  begins 
the  ascent  of  the  slope  toward  the  vine-clad  cabin, 
stood  his  ponderous  wagon,  heavily  wheel-locked 
with  a  stout  chain.  It  was  one  of  those  freighting 
vans,  high-sided,  slate-gray  in  colour,  and  staunchly 
ribbed  into  panels.  The  canvas  sheeting,  new  and 
white,  shone  in  the  sun,  a  fleckless  expanse  like  a 
hooding  of  snow. 


152  Wine  o    the  Winds 

In  the  hold  of  this  stout-wheeled  craft  the  amateur 
freighter  was  bustling  about.  Full  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago  he  had  been  called  to  dinner,  to  the  good 
bye  dinner  which  he  was  to  share  with  Alice  and  the 
children;  and  now  sundry  readjustments  of  the  load 
were  being  made  to  serve  as  a  pretext  for  further  de 
lay. 

The  original  loading  of  the  wagon,  in  Omaha,  had 
naturally  been  done  with  exacting  care,  to  give  an 
equal  distribution  of  weight;  but  now  a  dallying  shift 
had  been  made  of  coffee  bags,  of  paper-wrapped 
bales  of  calico,  and  even  of  the  barrels. 

While  thus  keeping  himself  occupied,  Doctor  North 
presently  heard  Connie's  shrill  treble  again  announc 
ing: 

"Dinner's  ready.  Aunt  Al  says,  'Please,  Dockey, 
come  to  dinner'." 

"Yes,  little  boy;  all  right.     Presently,  presently." 

The  small  brothers  had  been  with  him  at  the 
wagon,  ever  since  it  arrived,  only  leaving  on  brief 
errands  to  inform  Alice  about  the  wonderfully  long 
new  whip,  or  about  the  bumble  bee  that  bumbled 
right  into  the  wagon  and  lit  on  a  molasses  barrel. 

This  great  news,  however,  had  been  quietly  re 
ceived.  She  hardly  gave  the  children  a  smile.  All 
the  forenoon  she  had  kept  busy,  making  much  ado 
over  trifles,  and  even  putting  fresh  papers  on  the 
cupboard  shelves,  although  the  scalloped  ones  she 
took  off  were  scarcely  soiled  in  the  least.  To  get 
dinner  ready  required  a  long  time,  seeing  that  she  had 
grown  so  curiously  forgetful  and  incompetent. 

Victor  North,  it  appeared,  was  not  to  be  present  at 
this  leave-taking.  Through  some  motive,  perhaps 


Farewell  153 

through  delicacy,  he  had  made  his  excuses  for  ab 
senting  himself  from  the  farewell  dinner. 

Had  he  been  here,  he  might  well  have  been  sur 
prised  at  the  atmosphere  of  seeming  well  content. 
Doctor  North  ate  with  appreciative  gusto.  It  grew 
markedly  noticeable,  too,  that  during  the  whole 
course  of  the  meal  he  and  Alice  kept  up  a  conversa 
tion  of  some  sort.  They  talked  and  talked;  and  yet 
made  no  reference  to  the  far  journey  across  the  plains. 
Their  volubility  suggested  that  such  a  journey  is 
nothing  much.  Not  worth  mentioning. 

Alice,  it  is  true,  presently  observed: 

"In  the  pocket  of  your  jacket  I've  put  a  little 
sewing  case,  a  housewife,  with  needles  and  thread 
and  buttons.  It  might,  I  thought,  come  in  handy, 
if  you  have -to  do  any  mending." 

The  young  man  gave  unstinted  thanks.  So 
thoughtful  of  her!  He  really  didn't  know  how  it  was 
that  she  could  always  think  of  such  things. 

It  surprised  Alice  more  than  a  little  that  he  could 
go  on  eating  so  heartily.  One  might  even  suppose 
that  he  had  quite  as  lusty  an  appetite  as  the  two 
little  boys. 

Florence,  however,  seemed  to  have  a  difficulty 
with  swallowing.  Finally  she  pushed  back  from  the 
table,  to  get  up  hurriedly  and  hasten  away  into  the 
adjoining  room. 

Doctor  North  looked  at  the  closed  door;  he  looked, 
and  breathed  deeply,  but  after  a  time  went  on  talk 
ing  with  his  customary  tone: 

"My  oxen  seem  to  be  good  roadsters.  I  shall 
have  them  shod  if  the  ground  gets  too  dry.  Pre 
vents  lameness,  you  know." 


154  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

Did  he  yearn  to  follow  the  little  girl,  and  press 
her  face  between  his  palms? — her  sweet  face  which 
had  in  it  the  kind  of  look  which  was  known  to  please 
him  wonderfully  well?  Would  he  like  to  console 
the  child  by  talking  with  her,  out  of  his  heart,  with 
gentle  and  comforting  words?  Perhaps  so.  Yet 
one  could  not  tell  whether  his  quiet  manner  ex 
pressed  restraint  or  mere  indifference. 

It  could  well  be,  Alice  thought,  indifference. 
Every  minute  of  the  time  he  might  be  wishing  to  be 
through  with  this  dinner,  to  finish  with  leave-taking, 
and  be  off.  She  gazed  into  his  eyes  to  see  if  this 
could  be  so.  Baffled  and  wondering,  she  tried  to 
read  in  his  face  whether  he  knew  aught  about  the 
unexplained  vanishment  of  that  strange  girl  of  the 
prairies. 

Supposing  he  knew  the  whereabouts  of  Winifred 
Barton,  what  then  ?  Might  there  be  an  understand 
ing  between  them  ?  What  if  she,  by  some  mysterious 
means,  had  been  the  instigator  of  this  needless 
freighting  project? 

Deeply  intent,  Alice  looked  and  looked.  But 
could  make  out  nothing.  For  what  is  to  be  disclosed 
by  a  sun-browned  face  inscrutable  as  stone? 

It  shamed  her  to  have  suspicions;  yet  here  they 
were,  these  troubling  doubts.  For  what  is  one  to 
think?  He  was  leaving.  He  had  not  made  her  his 
wife.  Going  away!  And  wherefore? 

The  need  of  money,  as  he  would  have  it  under 
stood,  might  truly  be  the  motive.  This  freighting 
enterprise,  to  be  sure,  promised  returns  modestly 
profitable.  But  did  not  the  business  have  in  it 
something  more  than  a  financial  consideration? 


Farewell  155 

It  must  have,  or  else  he  would  here  establish  a  medi 
cal  practice  to  supply  himself  with  means. 

But — no  help  for  it — he  was  leaving.  In  the  need 
to  question  him  Alice  brought  herself  to  ask,  with  a 
well-contrived  effect  of  casualness: 

"What  have  you  heard  from  Miss  Barton?" 

"Why,  nothing."  He  quietly  let  it  be  known  that 
after  her  father's  funeral  she  had  left,  but  for  what 
place  no  one  seemed  to  know.  He  had  a  notion  that 
she  might  have  returned  to  her  aunt. 

After  a  reflective  pause  Alice  hazarded  the  opinion 
that  "At  the  burial  service  the  young  lady  didn't 
show  much  grief — didn't  seem  deeply  moved.  People 
have  mentioned  her  odd  behaviour." 

Doctor  North  could  see  nothing  very  unusual  in 
such  conduct.  "If,"  he  said,  "she  remained  tearless 
during  that  ordeal,  it  was  doubtless  because  the 
violence  of  her  grief  had  spent  itself." 

Presently  he  again  spoke  of  her.  She  had  mourned, 
he  said.  Oh,  yes! — yes,  indeed,  she  had. 

Silence  lasted  for  rather  a  painful  pause  before 
Alice  asserted  in  a  tone  of  perplexed  wonderment: 

"She  wouldn't  come  home  with  me  from  the 
funeral.  I  asked  her,  and  she  thanked  me.  But 
wouldn't  come." 

"It  was  nice  of  you,  Alice,  to  do  that — to  ask  her." 

They  both  knew,  the  whole  settlement  knew,  that 
the  girl  had  gone  back,  alone,  to  the  echoing  empti 
ness  of  the  sod  house;  and  next  morning,  as  it  turned 
out,  she  and  her  horse  had  vanished.  Ever  since 
then  the  mystery  of  that  abrupt  departure  had  been 
a  disturbing  circumstance  more  troubling  to  Alice 
than  she  would  have  cared  to  have  any  one  suspect. 


156  Wine  o    the  Winds 

If  only  she  dared  ask  candidly  whether  Harry  North, 
in  crossing  the  plains,  planned  to  see  that — that 
person!  But  one  doesn't,  of  course,  ask  such  a 
question.  She  merely  tortures  herself;  prepares, 
somehow,  to  combat  the  poignant  appeal  which  a 
girl,  in  her  sorrow,  may  be  likely  to  make  to  a  man's 
sensibilities. 

Alice  could  not  help  feeling,  of  late,  that  Harry 
North  was  keeping  something  back  from  her.  She 
was  sure  of  it.  But  there  must  be,  she  thought, 
some  way  of  drawing  near  to  him  in  sympathetic 
confidence;  some  way  to  bring  back  the  sweetness 
and  open-hearted  trust  of  the  good  years  gone  by. 
He  should  not,  at  least,  be  permitted  to  leave  this 
house  with  a  face  as  grave  and  sternly  determined 
as  it  now  appeared. 

So,  the  dinner  things  having  been  cleared  away, 
Alice  brought  the  Bible,  and  put  it  into  her  lover's 
hands,  and  waited  for  him  to  read  comforting  words. 
But  he  did  not  read.  For  some  time  he  merely  held 
the  book — absently  held  it — and  looked  away. 
When  his  voice  finally  did  make  itself  heard,  it  was 
only  to  quote  a  grim  text,  with  the  arid  emphasis  of  a 
judge  passing  sentence: 

"' Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also 
reap/" 

Hastily  the  young  woman  took  the  heavy  volume 
from  him.  She  took  it,  and  opened  it,  and  having 
turned  to  the  sixth  chapter  of  Numbers,  anxiously 
called  her  little  niece.  Then,  when  Florence  had 
come  in,  with  eyes  all  red  and  swollen,  her  aunt  said 
quietly,  as  she  spread  the  book  open  upon  the  table: 

"He  is  going  into  a  far  country.     Doctor  North  is 


Farewell  157 

leaving  us.     We  do  not  know  when  we  shall  see  him 
again.     Read,  my  dear,  read  for  us  those  verses." 

Her  fingers  having  indicated  the  place,  the  frail 
voice  of  the  much-beloved  little  girl  was  raised  in 
gentle  benediction: 

'  The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee.  The  Lord 
make  His  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be  gracious 
unto  thee.  The  Lord  lift  up  His  countenance  upon 
thee,  and  give  thee  peace.' ' 

Silence  held  the 'room.  Arthur  had  put  his  arm 
about  little  brother,  who  felt  the  sorrow  of  the  older 
people,  and  was  beginning  to  cry. 

"Peace!"  In  a  timid  voice  Doctor  North  had  re 
peated  the  word.  But  he  shook  his  head  over  it, 
and  got  up,  and  went  his  way. 

Afterward,  when  the  yoked  oxen,  four  heavy- 
headed  beasts,  had  been  attached  to  the  wagon- 
chain,  Alice  came  forth  from  the  house,  leading 
Arthur  by  the  hand,  and  carrying  a  stuffed  carpet 
bag.  Quite  disdaining  the  protestations  of  the  young 
man,  she  determinedly  lifted  the  little  boy  to  the  seat 
of  the  heavy  vehicle. 

"This  won't  do,"  Doctor  North  was  saying.  "I 
can't  take  him  with  me.  It's  not  the  thing." 

Alice  Arden  did  not  reply.  She  merely  stowed  the 
carpet-bag  into  the  wagon;  and  Arthur  heard  her 
saying  with  a  strange  gentleness: 

"  You  will  see  to  it  that  Dockey  North  takes  care  of 
himself  while  he  is  gone  away.  You  will  go  with 
him,  and  stay  with  him,  and  then  God  will  not  let 
him  forget  us." 


PARTY 
SONG 


CHAPTER  I 

Night's  Symphony 

WORN  out  with  walking  all  the  afternoon, 
Arthur  had  gone  to  sleep  on  the  wagon- 
seat;  and  in  time  to  the  jouncing  of  the 
ponderous  vehicle  his  limp  arm  swung  jerkily,  like  an 
eccentric  pendulum,  the  hand  and  wrist  now  richly 
washed  by  the  golden  afterglow.  In  the  deep 
ening  dusk  Doctor  North  sometimes  walked  ahead 
of  his  team  for  an  investigation  of  the  road,  in  order 
to  avoid  the  deep-rutted  places  and  muddy  hollows. 

All  the  prairie,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  begun  to 
rejoice  that  the  garish  day  was  done.  The  circled 
slash  of  the  horizon  had  contracted,  and  the  coming 
night  began  to  soothe  the  eye  with  colours  delicately 
grave,  so  that  even  the  green  of  the  grass,  the  harsh 
new  green  of  early  summer,  soberly  hid  its  harshness 
in  the  vast  drench  of  darkness  which  translucently 
drowned  the  land,  rising  from  the  ground  itself,  one 
knew  not  how,  nor  when. 

At  such  a  time  the  plains  grow  less  afraid.  The 
country,  at  last,  dares  to  breathe,  but  begins  to  do  so 
with  trillings  timorously  shy,  an  experimental  tuning 
up.  For  each  insect  knows  how  very  little  it  is;  and 
being  an  atom  so  shamefully  small,  how  can  it  help 
being  abashed  by  its  own  boldness?  Yet  with  their 
first  audacity  going  unrebuked,  the  wee  fiddlers  grow 

161 


162  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

less  deprecatory.  They  answer  one  another.  Their 
assurance  keeps  increasing.  All  the  solitudes  begin 
to  tingle  with  stilly  notes,  with  oceans  full  of  tiniest 
voices  now  singing  in  the  joy,  in  the  freshness,  in  the 
gracious  cooling  of  the  lovely,  lovely  night! 

The  man  listened.  Vague  rustlings  stirred  in  the 
grass.  A  meadow  mouse  squeaked.  Perhaps  slow 
land-turtles  crawled,  or  toads  hopped,  or  the  stealthy 
serpent  sinuously  slid.  From  among  the  black 
bristle  of  sword-leafed  cat-tails  growing  in  a  slough 
the  frogs  had  begun  their  quaking  storm  of  tones,  a 
chaos  of  metallic  tremolos,  tiny  trebles,  and  glum 
bassos  deeply  throbbing. 

But  the  chuck  and  clack  of  the  wagon  frightened 
the  swamp-chorusers;  they  grew  still,  they  waited, 
and  presently  began  again  with  a  faint  prickle  of 
trills,  as  if  not  quite  sure  of  hazards  safely  past. 

What  a  different  prairie  was  this  from  the  prairie 
of  a  little  while  ago!  Night  life  had  awakened.  It 
was  awake  and  singing  its  song  of  mysteries.  From 
everywhere  came  the  respiration  of  the  darkened 
earth.  Silences  grew  articulate.  Space  itself  breathed 
out  a  drowse  of  muted  thunderings.  All  the  cool 
ness  quivered  with  horny  buzz  of  beetle  wings,  with 
rodent  gnawings,  with  keening  shrill  of  gnats,  and  the 
deep  hum  of  the  moth's  wet-winged  flutterings. 

The  night's  witchery,  this  miracle  of  the  common 
place,  had  also  its  human  note.  Someone  was  sing 
ing:  a  boy,  a  woman — who  can  say?  Tenuous,  dis 
tant,  indefinable,  a  vocalist  had  begun  one  of  those 
melodies,  half  remembered,  which  haunt  the  mind 
yet  elude  indentification.  Dominating  the  prairie's 
somnolence  of  song,  this  musical  utterance  came 


Night's  Symphony  163 

pulsing  not  merely  out  of  the  star-lit  spaciousness, 
but  out  of  a  past  experience.  North  had  heard  it 
before.  Surely  he  had.  But  where  ?  But  when  ? 

Tantalized  by  his  inability  to  recall  the  sadly 
tender  songfulness,  the  young  man  stopped  his  team 
the  better  to  listen;  but  with  the  halting  of  the  oxen 
and  the  heavy  vehicle  the  singing  also  halted. 
Only  the  unseeable  orchestras  of  the  grassy  plains 
continued  their  small,  pensive,  multitudinous  noc 
turne. 

North  called  to  his  team,  the  wagon  creaked,  the 
swell  of  canvas  began  once  more  its  gray  and  corpu 
lent  wabbling.  And  the  heavy  roll  of  wheels  had 
rumbled  on  for  some  time  before  the  song,  vaguely 
reminiscent,  began  to  infuse  a  certainty  of  cadence 
into  the  tiny  trilling  and  shrilling  pulsations  of  the 
prairies.  A  Mexican  herd-boy,  North  thought, 
might  be  singing  as  he  made  his  rounds  of  grazing 
cattle  from  some  wagon-train,  perhaps  a  freighters' 
outfit  encamped  beyond  the  line  of  the  close  and 
bleared  horizon. 

It  was  not  a  wordless  song,  it  had  verses;  but 
what  they  were,  in  what  tongue,  whether  Spanish  or 
English,  could  not  be  determined.  Strive  as  he 
would  to  make  them  out,  the  listener  could  not  even 
be  certain  of  the  much-repeated  refrain,  nor  could  he 
convince  himself  as  to  the  direction  whence  the  sing 
ing  came.  Near  or  far,  to  right  or  to  left,  it  seemed 
detached  from  the  prairie,  seemed  vagrantly  floating 
about;  at  times  it  even  seemed  to  quiver  over  his 
head,  as  it  might  be  some  magic  music  wrought  by 
the  crystal  throbbing  of  the  stars. 

In  his  yearning  to  pluck  out  the  mystery  of  this 


164  Wine  o   the  Winds 

enchantment,  or  at  least  to  freshen  a  faded  memory  of 
the  voice  formerly  heard  and  now  forgotten,  North 
presently  grew  perplexed  by  yet  another  marvel — by 
a  mystical  flushing  of  the  east.  Why,  he  wondered, 
should  the  sky  be  brightening  there  with  that  tender 
ness  of  tint,  a  hushed  and  warm  serenity  of  colour 
ing?  What  if  a  haystack,  gloriously  afire  in  a 
meadow  far  distant,  were  reflecting  its  blaze  in  the 
placid  and  star-pricked  profundities?  Or  might  not 
that  solemn  blush,  so  exquisitely  luminous,  be 
a  fragile  forecast  of  the  drowsy  moon's  deliberate 
rising  ? 

Quite  so:  the  moon!  Birds  twittered,  whippoor- 
wills  began  to  call,  the  happy-throated  meadow- 
lark  could  not  keep  himself  asleep,  but  sang, 
mistaking  for  the  modest  dawn  this  peep  of  slumber 
ous  nudity,  this  rayless  and  rose-perfect  curve  of  a 
divinity's  shoulder. 

Languorously,  meanwhile,  the  prairie  continued  its 
monotonous  hymning.  With  the  torpid  moon,  big 
and  round  and  yellow,  now  mounting  higher  in  its 
pride  of  place,  the  moist  night  throbbed  more  deeply 
than  ever,  rejoicing  that  the  sultry  day  should  be 
done — done  and  forgotten  in  this  delectable  freshness 
blessing  the  land. 

Presently  the  man  and  his  team  passed  through  a 
warm  strata  of  air  smelling  acridly  of  hay;  again  he 
scented  sharp,  weedy  odours  of  plants  crushed  by 
wagons  long  since  passed,  and  later  still  an  earthy 
fragrance  came  to  him,  exhaled  from  a  field  newly 
broken  by  the  plough. 

Again  Doctor  North  took  pleasure  in  a  cool  caress 
of  moisture  on  his  face;  for  the  trail  had  dipped 


Night's  Symphony  165 

through  a  hollow  bordering  a  swamp  where  water 
darkly  shone,  and  where  tussocks  of  reed-grass  bent 
in  a  tousled  and  listening  hush.  Into  one  of  the 
black  pools  a  star  had  dropped  a  crumpled  fish-line 
of  silver  fire. 

The  plodding  wayfarer  could  not  but  take  satisfac 
tion  in  that  reflection,  in  the  night  itself,  in  the  moist 
breathing  of  the  prairie,  and,  most  of  all,  in  the  far- 
distant  song,  once  more  beginning.  It  happened, 
besides,  that  an  odour  now  evoked  the  stubborn 
secret  which  North's  memory  had  long  refused  to 
yield.  For  here,  as  it  chanced,  he  recalled  that  once, 
after  a  rain,  the  prairie  had  a  wet  and  grassy  smell 
exactly  like  this;  and  the  song,  this  song,  had  th'en, 
for  the  first  time,  come  vaguely  and  elusively  floating 
to  his  ears. 

Rollins  had  sung  it.  Old  Rollins,  proud  of  his 
beard  and  of  his  voice,  he  was  the  one  who  had  been 
singing  that  song  to  keep  the  cattle  quiet.  It  was  a 
tune,  formless  and  rude,  a  trail-song  bemoaning  the 
sorrows  of  the  herd,  telling  of  horny  hoofs  knocking 
at  the  frozen  water-hole,  of  cold  and  sleet  and  hail, 
of  sun-blinded  creatures  bellowing  in  the  blistering 
dust.  But  the  chorus  gave  comfort;  manfully  and 
ruggedly  it  encouraged  the  poor  beasts  to  taste  the 
wind,  the  tang  of  the  wind,  the  wine  of  the  big  winds 
blowing. 

What  zest  and  lustiness  old  Rollins  could  put  into 
that  refrain!  But  who,  this  night,  could  be  singing 
that  song  of  the  cattle  trail?  Whose  voice  might  it 
be  that  came  throbbing,  now  mournfully,  now  tri 
umphantly,  into  the  prairie-wide  pulsations  of  the 
vast  night's  solemn  symphony? 


CHAPTER  II 

Ghost  Song 

IT  WAS  to  spare  his  oxen  that  Doctor  North  did 
not  travel  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  in  the  hours 
of  greatest  torridity;  and  three  nights  out  of  the 
four,  since  he  began  this  westward  plodding,  his  ears 
had  drunk  of  that  music — a  music  which  might  have 
seemed  of  celestial  origin  except  for  its  poignant 
strain  of  tender  sadness. 

By  day,  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  in  his  dusty  fatigue, 
he  succumbed  to  disillusionment.  Along  some  wheel- 
track  or  other  (the  prairie  being  cut  up  into  many 
trails)  a  wagon-train  would  nearly  always  be  in 
view.  Mormon  caravans,  made  up  of  handcarts 
and  ponderous  vans,  might  often  inspirit  their  going 
by  hymns  lustily  sung.  Not  merely  these  "church 
trains,"  as  they  were  called,  but  immigrant  trains 
(when  encamped  after  dark)  would  songfully  divert 
themselves.  How  be  sure,  then,  that  he  had  heard 
the  same  vocalist  more  than  once?  Any  squawker 
distantly  heard  might  send  forth  tones  easily  ideal 
ized  into  vocal  magic.  The  night-time,  besides, 
is  so  deceitful!  It  has  such  a  way  of  poetizing  the 
prosaic  and  the  commonplace ! 

After  dark,  on  the  fifth  day,  heat-lightning  twitched 
and  quivered,  far  off  along  the  horizon,  while  cloud 
masses  in  torn  banks,  chasms,  craggy  grotesques, 

1 66 


Ghost  Song  167 

abruptly   disclosed    themselves    against    the   bluish 
flares  torching  monstrously  behind  them. 

On  the  cushion  of  the  wagon-seat  Arthur  was 
roused  from  sleep  by  a  gruff  tone  harshly  demanding: 

"What's  up?    Afoowhat?" 

Confused  hubbub  sounded  in  the  night:  weary 
oaths,  creakings,  whip  snappings.  Chiefly,  however, 
the  commotion  seemed  made  up  of  rumbling  vibra 
tions,  glum  and  ponderous,  like  distant  thunder 
gradually  losing  its  strength  and  dying  out.  An 
ox-train,  a  far-extending  caravan,  was  coming  to  a 
halt. 

In  lachrymose  complaint  an  accusing  voice  in  the 
darkness  shouted: 

"Dobe  Dan  again!  Hang  me,  if  he  ain't  shed 
another  tire!" 

"The  hell  he  has!" 

"That's  it;  that's  what  he's  done." 

"Shove  on  an  extra  wheel,  why  don't  he?" 

"And  Wick  Hazen's  lead  yoke,"  someone  else 
was  reporting,  "has  went  and  split  on  him.  Looks 
like  we  better  lay  by  and  corral  for  the  night.  Don't 
it?" 

Odours  tepid  and  acrid,  a  smell  of  dust  and  of 
cattle,  rose  strongly  from  the  night.  In  the  dark 
ness  Arthur  could  see  the  train  and  the  oxen  smirch- 
ily  shaped.  One  yoke  of  light-coloured  bullocks, 
having  lain  down  with  legs  doubled  under  them, 
seemed  to  have  converted  themselves  into  twin 
boulders.  Past  the  draft  animals  and  the  wagons 
several  men,  who  looked  like  sooty  shapes,  kept 
moving  along.  The  bulge  of  the  wagon  tops,  when 
ever  the  heat-lightning  bluishly  glimmered,  stood 


1 68  Wine  o   the  Winds 

forth,  prominently  clipped  out.  The  canvas  tops, 
being  on  a  level  with  the  boy's  vision,  looked  swollen 
and  high,  but  each  team  of  oxen  appeared  small, 
with  legs  much  shorter  than  common. 

All  this  arrested  motion  of  the  long  train  was  noth 
ing  Arthur  need  bother  about.  He  stretched  himself, 
yawned,  and  for  a  time  watched  the  firefly  atoms 
balancing  everywhere  in  myriads  of  emerald  flecks 
leisurely  glowing. 

"Clean  split,"  a  wagon  man  was  declaring.  "Got 
to  be  banded,  I  guess." 

Another  person  declared  regretfully:  "Grass  along 
here  is  et  off  tolerable  close.  But  we'll  corral  any 
how,  I  reckon.  Best  we  can  do." 

Through  his  dozy  state  the  little  boy  heard  a 
resonant  shout  and  the  pistol-like  snap  of  a  whip. 
An  ox-driver  was  starting  his  team.  A  tar-bucket 
clanked,  a  distant  wagon  began  to  creak,  then  an 
other,  and  another,  and  another,  until  the  whole 
train,  by  slow  degrees,  finally  got  under  way.  Mov 
ing  ponderously  northward,  alternate  vans  passed 
to  right  and  left,  thus  halving  the  caravan  into  diver 
gent  arms  which  soon  came  together,  forming  a  pair 
of  colossal  parentheses.  The  place  where  the  head 
teams  began  to  halt  had  evidently  been  the  camping- 
ground  of  some  other  train,  for  now  and  again  one 
heard  in  the  darkness  the  clink  of  a  tin  can  as  it  was 
knocked  about  by  hoof  or  teamster's  boot. 

Arthur  slept,  but  did  not  long  remain  asleep.  Upon 
awaking  he  saw  that  a  number  of  canvas  tops  had 
taken  on  a  wavering  russet  tinge  from  the  doubtful 
light  of  fires  newly  kindled,  and  in  grotesque  shadow 
show  black  caricatures  of  people  sometimes  moved 


Ghost  Song  169 

back  and  forth  across  the  wagons.  A  tang  of  smoke, 
a  smell  of  cookery,  and  a  good  aroma  of  boiling  coffee 
came  up  to  him. 

Growing  hungry  at  once,  the  boy  threw  off  the 
tarpaulin  protecting  him  fron  the  evening's  damp 
ness;  and  as  he  began  to  swing  cautiously  down  from 
his  place,  treading  on  tire  and  hub  of  a  fore-wheel, 
he  heard  an  unfamiliar  voice  say  genially: 

"Hullo,  there.     Have  you  had  a  good  snooze?" 

The  one  speaking  to  him,  a  man  in  much-begrimed 
buckskin  clothes,  with  knees  and  elbows  worn  shiny, 
had  obviously  built  the  fire.  Arthur  wanted  to  re 
spond  to  his  friendliness,  but  feeling  estranged  by 
the  wagon-camp,  and  by  this  unwonted  presence, 
he  did  not  speak,  but  stood  gazing  all  about  in  trou 
bled  perplexity. 

"Don't  fret  yourself,"  the  stranger  added,  reassur 
ingly,  while  from  a  brown  and  corpulent  bag  he 
brought  forth  a  disc-like  slab,  a  buffalo  chip,  as  fuel 
for  the  fire.  "Your  father  will  be  back  after  a  little. 
Gone  down  to  the  river  to  water  his  horse,  along  with 
the  rest  of  the  stock." 

"Oh!"  said  Arthur,  and  tried  to  say  it  with  showy 
unconcern.  He  was  minded  to  let  the  mistake  about 
the  paternal  relationship  go  unchallenged.  But 
would  that  be  honest?  "He's  not  my  father — not 
quite.  We're  partners."  He  would  have  liked  to  say 
something  more;  he  wanted  to  go  on  talking,  easily 
and  naturally,  to  the  stranger.  That  would  be  such 
a  mannish  thing  to  do!  But  his  conversational  ac 
complishment  did  not  extend  further  than  the  swag 
gering  announcement  as  to  partnership. 

In    thick,  wavy   masses    the   man's    yellow  hair 


170  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

brushed  forward  upon  his  shoulders  as  he  bent  over 
the  fire.  The  long  locks  must  have  bothered  his 
eyes  only  that  they  were  held  back  by  a  willow  withe 
such  as  Indians  often  wear  about  their  heads  on 
windy  days. 

"Partners,  eh?"  The  man  seemed  to  ponder  this 
as  something  worthy  of  profound  consideration; 
then  he  asked:  "Not  an  orphan?" 

Arthur  wished  to  deny  his  orphanhood,  as  some 
thing  objectionable,  if  not  downright  disgraceful. 
So  he  said:  "IVe  been  staying  awhile  with  my  Aunt 
Alice,  at  Tecon  City."  One  gathered  that  it  had 
been  for  a  short  visit  only.  But  the  little  boy  was 
afraid  that  the  deplorable  truth  would  have  to  come 
out,  because  the  man  was  the  kind  that  asks  ques 
tions. 

"Have  you  some  brothers?" 

"One." 

"And  sisters?" 

"One  sister." 

The  stranger's  face,  richly  coloured  with  sun  and 
wind,  and  now  aglow  in  the  fireshine,  had  taken  on  a 
museful  look.  Arthur  presently  heard  him  saying: 

"They  will  be  changed.  I  must  expect  that.  My 
own  little  people — that's  what  I  mean.  There  are 
three  of  them,  three  brothers.  I  keep  wondering 
how  much  they  have  grown,  and  thus  and  so,  and 
what  they're  going  to  look  like.  Hugh,  I  shouldn't 
wonder,  might  be  nearly  as  big  as  you  are  by  now. 
And  the  baby?  (Sky  Boy,  his  mother  calls  him. 
Blue  eyes,  same  as  mine;  and  she  calls  him  Sky  Boy.) 
He  will  no  longer  be  carried  on  her  back,  or  have  his 
cradle  hung  up  in  a  tree  while  she  works.  He  would 


Ghost  Song  171 

be  running  about,  I  suppose  .  .  .  this  long 
while." 

Thus  the  man  went  on  talking,  and  seemed  not  to 
notice  in  the  least  what  an  inattentive  audience  he 
had;  for  he  was  the  sort  to  speak  out  of  his  heart  the 
memories  which  came  to  him.  Lonely  men  often 
form  the  habit  of  soliloquy.  They  give  their  con 
fidences  to  dogs,  or  horses,  or  oxen,  and  perhaps  gain 
comfort  from  talking  to  dumb  creatures  who  would 
like  to  understand,  and  really  do  understand  much 
more  than  people  are  wont  to  suppose. 

While  the  man  at  the  fire  went  on  meditating  aloud 
in  regard  to  his  little  boys,  a  hunchbacked  person, 
dark  as  a  shadow,  bent  down  and  came  under  a 
raised  wagon-tongue,  as  under  a  fence  bar.  The 
heavy  pole,  whose  tip  rested  against  the  inner  hub 
of  a  rear  wheel,  formed  one  of  the  many  similar  con 
necting  spans  of  the  corral;  for  each  two  vans  were 
thus  solidly  joined. 

The  dwarfish  individual  coming  under  the  beamed 
barrier  proved  to  be  a  teamster,  with  a  whip-lash 
coiled  under  his  arm.  Scuffing  out  of  the  darkness 
into  the  firelight,  the  newcomer  greeted  nobody, 
but  began  to  scold  and  to  cast  surly  glances  into  the 
cavernous  space  between  the  wagons,  whence  he  had 
emerged. 

"Just  see  what  they're  at!"  he  railed,  while  crash 
ing  and  splitting  noises  made  themselves  heard  from 
the  other  side  of  the  corral.  "What  makes  'em  do 
that?  They  shouldn't.  It's  a  shame,  so  it  is.  It's 
a  shame." 

"What  is?"  inquired  the  man  in  shabby  buckskin. 

"Such  a  handsome  thing!"  the  hunchback  went 


172  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

on.  "Elegant  workmanship!  A  chest  of  drawers, 
Andy;  a  chest  of  drawers,  English  made,  and  old. 
Heavy,  of  course,  but  it  don't  look  heavy.  Graceful, 
you  understand.  Some  wagon  has  lightened  its 
load.  Abandoned  property,  of  course.  But  to 
smash  it  up — oh,  dear!  They  shouldn't.  Makes 
me  sick.  It's  a  disgrace." 

"I  know,  Mat,  how  you  feel.  And  you  a  cabinet 
maker.  Still,  that  piece  of  furniture  would  only 
blister  in  the  sun,  and  warp  and  twist  and  fall  to 
pieces." 

"Chippendale — that's  what  it  is.  You  just  ought 
to  feel  the  joints:  how  fine  and  perfect.  And  the 
carving  on  it !  But  now,  hear  that  ?  Oh,  the  ruffians ! 
A  shame,  it's  a  shame!" 

Another  man,  gauntly  detaching  himself  from  the 
darkness,  brightened  in  the  firelight.  "What's  up, 
Shorty?"  he  asked.  "What  are  you  in  such  a  stew 
about?"  And  having  heard  the  grievance  of  the 
hunchback,  the  lank  teamster  observed  reflectively: 

"Queer  what  stuff  gets  scattered  along  the  trail.  A 
few  years  back,  when  cholera  was  bad  on  the  plains, 
seems  like  everybody  dumped  things  out:  bedsteads, 
chairs,  tables,  even  sacks  of  flour.  After  the  general 
stampede,  it  looked  like  the  ocean  had  washed  up 
such  rubbish  as  cast-iron  stoves,  cupboards,  dishes, 
and  Lord  knows  what.  Only  what  gets  me  is  how 
folks  can  be  senseless  enough  to  haul  such  loads  and 
loads  of  useless  truck." 

"Gone!"  the  hunchback  exclaimed,  and  vindic 
tively  slashed  the  darkness  with  his  long  whip.  "  The 
cut-throats  have  finished  their  job.  They've  chop 
ped  it  up!" 


Ghost  Song  173 

"I've  seen  worse  than  that — a  whole  lot  worse," 
the  man  in  buckskin  asserted.  "Wait  till  I  tell  you 
what  I  saw  one  day  along  the  creek  that  the  Indians 
call  Medicine  Bow.  First  we  came  to  a  cow  elk, 
dead  and  rotting.  Followed  along  down  the  canyon, 
and  came  to  another,  and  another,  and  still  others. 
In  going  half  a  mile  I  counted  seventeen  of  them. 
English  hunters  had  done  that.  Wanted  to  see  how 
much  game  they  could  kill  for  nothing,  for  no  pur 
pose  at  all.  Well,  and  what  do  natives  think  of  need 
less,  stupid  slaughter  like  that?  Indians  ought  to  be 
pleased,  hey?  Must  sure  love  a  race  that  calls  itself 
civilized.  Pah!"  The  fire  hissed  as  he  spat  angrily 
into  it. 

"There's  got  to  be  game  laws,"  the  dwarfish  team 
ster  declared.  "Strong  laws  Congress  ought  to  make, 
to  preserve  the  game.  Ouch!  oh,  Lord,"  he  added, 
"my  feet  have  swelled  on  me!  My  boots  hurt." 
Sitting  down  by  the  fire,  he  began  with  much  grunt 
ing  effort  to  pull  them  off,  meanwhile  giving  vent 
to  profane  and  puffy  complaints  which  suddenly 
stopped  short. 

Not  merely  his  talk,  but  his  activity  had  abated; 
for  he,  like  his  fellows,  fell  a-listening  to  vibrations 
from  a  guitar  melodiously  tinkling  out  of  the  dark 
ness.  Silvery  chords,  light  and  exceedingly  musical, 
throbbed  forth  in  mild  sonority,  while  a  voice,  colour 
ful  and  low,  floated  into  what  might  be  called  har 
monic  meditation,  rather  than  song.  It  may  not 
have  been  a  wordless  ballad,  but  if  there  were  verses 
to  it,  one  could  not  tell  what  they  were;  one  could 
only  feel  that  they  were  something  wistfully  vagrant, 
as  if  a  homeless  and  lonely  spirit,  out  yonder  on  the 


174  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

prairie,  might  be  wandering  hopelessly  about,  and 
yet  striving,  all  the  while,  to  forget  its  loneliness, 
and  be  merry. 

When  the  singing  had  died  away  and  even  the 
plucked  strings  had  hushed  their  sensitive  throbbings, 
the  men  here  gathered  about  the  fire,  remained  quite 
still,  in  strained  attention,  lest  the  song  should  begin 
again,  and  find  them  unprepared  to  give  it  all  the 
welcome  it  deserved.  Only  when  the  hopeful  harken- 
ing  had  waned  to  the  certainty  of  no  further  reward 
did  the  men  breathe  deeply  once  more,  and  stir,  and 
venture  speculations  regarding  the  vocalist.  Said 
the  man  of  the  long  yellow  hair: 

"It  could  be,  maybe,  the  lad  belonging  with  this 
pilgrim  oufit.  Last  night  I  did  a  shift  of  herd-duty 
along  with  him.  Might  be  part  Mexican,  I  guess; 
anyhow,  he's  good  on  the  cow  sabe.  You  mind  how 
close  and  sultry  it  was.  Well,  he  picked  out  the  right 
place  for  the  cattle  to  bed  down — a  ridge,  with  a 
stand  of  last  year's  grass.  Dry,  you  understand, 
and  located  where  it  would  catch  any  sniff  of  breeze 
that  might  come  fanning  by.  All  during  his  watch 
he  whistled  or  sang,  going  round  and  round  on  his 
horse,  and  giving  the  cattle  to  understand  that 
friends  were  keeping  guard." 

Doctor  North  would  have  been  interested,  no 
doubt,  in  this  that  was  said  of  the  singer,  but  his  re 
turn  from  the  river  was  too  long  delayed  for  him  to 
hear  it,  or  to  observe  what  effect  the  song  had  pro 
duced  upon  these,  his  new  associates.  In  the  good 
familiar  way  of  plains  folk  he  had  elected  to  camp 
with  the  men,  or,  at  least,  to  be  a  messmate  of  theirs  for 
the  sake  of  free-hearted  comradeship  and  sociability. 


Ghost  Song  175 

Day-long  plodding,  however,  is  likely  to  result  in 
the  desire  for  early  sleep.  And  indeed,  the  camp-fire 
groups,  all  about  the  circumference  of  the  wagon- 
corral,  were  not  long  in  dissolving,  once  the  business 
of  cooking  and  eating  had  been  dispatched.  Emi 
grant  families,  here  and  there,  had  pitched  tents, 
but  many  a  teamster  merely  utilized  his  wagon  for 
shelter  and  the  ground  under  it  for  bed. 

For  some  time  after  the  camp  had  hushed  itself  into 
the  deep  repose  of  heavy  fatigue  Doctor  North  re 
mained  near  the  faded  glow  of  the  fire,  which  now, 
filmed  with  ash,  no  longer  smoked  but  merely 
breathed  forth  a  warm  odour.  "Presently — pres 
ently,"  he  answered,  when  Arthur  asked  from  the 
blanket  heap  under  the  wagon  whether  it  wasn't 
time  for  him  to  come  to  bed. 

Bemused  waiting  had  come  to  the  young  man.  He 
watched  the  livid  wizardry  of  the  heat-lightning,  the 
swift  come  and  go  of  the  ragged  cloud-pageantry 
whose  dark  masses  above  the  horizon  continued  to 
display  themselves  against  the  quiver  of  repeated 
blue- white  flarings.  How  weirdly  beautiful,  and 
strange !  Another  mystery !  Yes,  to  be  sure :  mystery, 
mystery — by  day  or  by  night  mystery  forever  abides 
here.  A  land  of  astounding  caprices  where  stern, 
untamed  Nature  knows  nothing  of  small  pettiness 
but  is  always  majestical — equivocal,  too — a  prodigal 
besides!  Only  see,  for  example,  what  a  living  gem- 
mery  the  wastrel  has  now  cast  abroad  into  the  night 
through  the  utter  ocean-reach  of  all  this  prairie 
vastness.  The  illimitable  dark,  remote  and  near,  is 
wondrously  a-throb  not  merely  with  a  few  slow  sparks, 
orange  and  emerald,  but  with  an  amazing  jewelled 


176  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

drift  of  them,  all  space  thrilled  with  them,  the  un- 
starred  and  black-blue  night  pricked  full  of  them — a 
pulsating  wilderness  of  little,  lovely  fire-flies! 

How  proper  a  setting  this  would  be  for  a  song,  for 
that  sad  wanderer  of  vagrant  melody  already  vaguely 
heard  to-night  while  North  was  at  the  river.  But 
would  it  be  repeated  ?  Even  as  he  continued  his  wait 
ing  in  pensive  hope  and  yearning,  the  pretty  fancy 
came  to  him  of  sweet  sounds  divined  rather  than 
heard,  of  a  tinkling  silvery  prelude  which  presently 
lost  itself,  melting  into  the  solitude.  But  timorously 
and  elusively  it  began  again,  as  if  a  troubadour  hid 
den  in  the  darkened  hush  might  be  mistrustful  of 
something  and  afraid  to  sing. 

Vocal  utterance  finally  did  risk  disturbing  the 
sleep  of  the  camp.  Ethereal  notes  mingled  with  the 
tiny  bell  notes  of  instrumental  strings,  and  a  little 
song  began  to  take  its  fairy  flight,  so  thin  and  mourn 
ful  and  fragile-sweet  that  one  might  have  thought 
it  a  spirit  song,  a  lonely  and  melodious  ghost  for 
lornly  wandering. 

At  once  Harry  North  drew  off  his  boots.  He  drew 
them  off  and  with  fleet  and  cautious  tread  sped 
nimbly  forth,  skirting  the  outer  curve  of  wagons, 
pausing  at  intervals  to  listen  and  to  peer  in  quick- 
sighted  efforts  to  detect  the  minstrel  whose  tender 
wistfulness  so  haunted  the  prairie  silences. 

Success  should  have  been  his.  By  this  discreet, 
swift,  and  noiseless  caution  he  should  have  surprised 
the  singer;  yet  even  the  pouncing  rudeness  of  the  dash 
he  finally  brought  himself  to  make  was  an  impudence 
yielding  but  a  poor  result.  In  the  darkness,  under  a 
particular  wagon,  the  song  had  stopped  short.  As 


Ghost  Song  177 

he  made  his  leap  something  thumped  the  ground, 
thumped  with  a  hollow  sound  and  vibrantly  rang. 
But — no  singer.  The  vocalist  had  vanished.  Noth 
ing  requited  him  for  his  audacity  save  faint  tremors 
of  taut  strings  swooning  into  silence ! 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Plains 

IN  THE  gray  of  morning,  at  the  time  of  heavy-eyed 
awakening,  it  seemed  to  Arthur  that  he  had  been 
roused  by  a  peppery  tickle  in  the  nose  and  an  im 
pulse  to  sneeze.  Doubtless  the  fuming  of  dust  in 
the  wagon-corral  had  evoked  for  him  this  snuffy 
distress;  and  now,  in  the  first  moments  of  wakeful- 
ness,  the  boy  thought  he  had  a  circular  window  to 
look  through,  one  with  black  bars  arranged  like  the 
ribs  of  an  open  fan;  but  these,  he  presently  realized, 
were  merely  the  stout  spokes  of  a  heavy  wheel. 

Bugle  calls  sounded.  Hoofs*trampled  the  inclosure, 
work  cattle  were  lowing.  People  moved  about,  whips 
snapped,  the  corral  quickened  into  bustling  activity. 

Arthur  noticed,  besides,  that  the  river  valley  had 
made  a  trough  for  the  light  of  the  rising  sun.  Every 
where  a  yellowing  luminosity  had  spread  itself  over 
the  ground,  a  brightness  so  powerful  as  to  dim  the 
breakfast  fire,  whose  flames  grew  almost  colourless. 

Commotion  increased.  Oxen  having  been  driven 
into  the  impounding  wagon-circle,  the  dust-smudge 
enveloped  the  animals,  translucently  fuming  like 
yellow  smoke.  Lively  phantoms  moved  there.  They 
were  the  befogged  teamsters,  bounding,  skipping, 
swearing,  and  sometimes  good-naturedly  laughing, 
while  they  chased  the  beasts  that  kept  making  in- 

178 


The  Plains 

tractable  efforts  to  avoid  the  yoke.  Bellowings  rose 
out  of  the  dust.  A  horse  whinnied,  and  one  heard 
the  strident  braying  of  a  disconsolate  mule. 

Before  seven  o'clock  the  wayside  village  had  dis 
solved.  Here  and  there,  like  dogs  following  at  heel, 
horses,  colts,  and  cows  went  tagging  along  behind  a 
wagon,  as  if  the  vehicle  had  been  a  travelling  manger. 
Canvas  tops  were  like  a  long  string  of  wobbling  white 
ducks,  a  procession  which  dipped  and  curved  over  the 
prairie,  bowing  now  outward,  now  inward,  now  down 
and  up  again,  according  to  the  undulations  of  the 
wheel-track. 

Presently  six  wagons  detached  themselves  from  the 
plodding  caravan.  This  platoon  moved  away  from 
the  main-travelled  road,  bearing  off  by  itself  a  little  to 
the  north;  for  the  place  occupied  at  the  rear  of  the 
long  column  had  grown  much  too  disagreeable,  by 
reason  of  the  dust. 

Of  the  wagoners  thus  isolating  themselves  the  only 
one  to  doubt  the  desirability  of  the  change  was 
Doctor  North.  For  to  keep  on  going  with  that 
extended  argosy  of  prairie  schooners  might  be  to 
discover,  within  two  days  or  three,  the  identity  of  the 
mysterious  singer. 

After  midday  the  wagon  men  rarely  talked  or  sang. 
Always  the  heat  of  the  afternoon — the  dull,  dry, 
aching  torpor — gave  a  staleness  to  one's  thoughts, 
blurred  his  memories,  and  silenced  every  interest. 
In  the  distance,  to  the  north,  you  saw  always  the  low 
hills,  violet  in  colour,  forming  the  changeless  rim  of 
the  horizon.  The  green-bronze  of  the  prairie  wear 
ied  the  mind  with  its  flatness  and  its  emptiness, 
reaching  westward  to  distances  unattainable. 


i8o  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Each  hummock  and  rise  of  ground  looked  bored; 
earth  and  sky  looked  unutterably  bored.  One  knew 
that  their  patience  had  long  ago  been  worn  to  apathy 
by  the  dust  of  caravans  endlessly  passing,  by  the 
graceless  jounce  and  wobble  of  wagons  forever 
crawling  here,  over  many  trails,  in  sombre  proces 
sionals,  heavy,  slow,  innumerable,  drearily  alike. 

Too  long  abused  with  sun-fire,  and  dust,  and 
monotony,  the  land  finally  seemed  to  rebel  and  try  to 
throw  off  its  weight  of  arid  brooding.  An  ashen 
cloud,  like  smoke  from  a  magic  jar,  had  begun  to  lift 
itself  from  behind  a  squatted  hill.  Men  watched  the 
cloud.  Hopefully  they  saw  it  darken  as  it  rose;  and 
though  it  mounted  very  sluggishly,  one's  heart  beat 
faster  to  behold  the  slaty  vapour  going  up  and  up, 
with  other  clouds,  a  whole  tribe  of  them,  reluctantly 
following. 

And  now  the  wind!  The  heat  began  to  lift.  A 
whistling  spread  through  the  grass,  racing  blurs  of 
dust  ran  off  the  road.  Sometimes  a  twisting  spiral, 
a  gray  geyser  of  hissing  dryness,  fumed  skyward, 
mysteriously  sucked  up  from  trail  and  dusty  wallow, 
from  those  crater  openings  scooped  wide  by  horn  and 
hoof  of  the  bison,  and  by  tireless  gougings  of  the 
prairie  winds. 

The  breeze  strengthened,  and  the  gustiness  in 
creased,  and  vast  gray  spiders,  in  size  like  baskets, 
came  fantastically  dancing  in  the  wind — a  horde  of 
dry  tumble-weeds  blown  about.  Snows  and  rains 
had  not  rotted  these  strange  prairie  plants  of  last 
summer's  growth;  so,  on  they  scurried,  sapless  and 
sombre,  spinning  and  leaping.  Now  and  again  one 
of  them  got  caught  in  the  thick  spokes  of  a  wheel, 


The  Plains  181 

and  there  rode,  going  round  and  round  for  some  time, 
before  it  could  frantically  tear  itself  free  and  go 
whirling  on  again,  a  weird  witch-thing  flying. 

In  the  distance,  beyond  the  place  where  even  the 
last  of  the  buffalo  wallows  seemed  to  smoke,  deep 
rumblings  began  to  reverberate.  A  giant,  hiding 
himself  under  ground,  had  begun  to  laugh;  or  else  he 
might  be  rolling  an  immense  empty  cask  down  his 
cellar  stairs. 

"What's  that?"  Arthur  called  out.  "Is  it  thun 
der?" 

It  was  that,  certainly;  but  where  was  the  good  of 
it?  Futile  thunder!  Nothing  happened.  In  a  very 
little  while  the  spurts  of  fierce  wind  had  spent  them 
selves,  being  quite  unable  to  bring  the  refreshment 
of  a  little  rain.  Soon,  too,  the  dust  settled  again, 
the  wagons  grittily  creaked,  and  in  a  very  brief  while 
there  remained  in  the  sky  no  fleck  of  the  defeated 
clouds.  All  had  fled.  All,  all  the  wild  tribe  of  them 
had  slunk  away,  frightened  from  the  sky  ky  the 
earth's  vast  aridity,  by  this  stupefaction  of  flatness, 
this  deadliness  of  unconquerable  monotony. 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Void 

THAT  night,  after  supper,  Doctor  North  kept 
peering  beyond  the  luminous  circumference  lit 
by  the  fire,  where  the  gloom  seemed  to  have  a 
special  thickness,  abysmally  black. 

By  and  by,  having  touched  Big  Andy's  arm,  he 
quietly  observed:  "Something  moves  out  yonder." 

The  plainsman  answered:  "I  hear  it." 

"Ahorse?" 

"It  is  not  a  horse." 

Andy  put  his  ear  to  the  ground,  harkened  awhile, 
and  asserted  that  it  might  be  a  stray  ox  wandering 
about,  or  else  some  old  buffalo  which  strong  young 
bulls,  according  to  their  practice,  had  horned  out  of 
the  herd.  "The  poor  beast  would  like  to  graze,  but 
he  can't  graze  much,  for  his  teeth  are  bad.  They  go 
roaming  lonesomely  about,  those  old  fellows,  and 
fight  off  the  wolves  while  their  strength  lasts,  as  long 
as  they  are  able." 

Half  aloud,  North  murmured:  "Not  a  horse, 
then."  One  knew  he  had  hoped  it  would  be  a  horse; 
for  the  rider  of  such  an  animal  might  be  the  one  who 
sings  out  of  the  darkness  a  song  refreshing  to  the 
heart  of  a  man. 

"Merely  an  ox,  or  an  old  buffalo,"  he  repeated. 

After  the  others  had  gone  off,  each  with  blankets 

182 


The  Void  183 

to  make  a  bed  under  his  wagon,  Arthur  wished  that 
the  man  in  buckskin  would  also  go  away.  But  while 
Doctor  North  kept  peering  into  the  darkness,  all  the 
time  listening  for  sounds  in  the  night,  Big  Andy 
still  lingered  here  by  the  fire,  gazing  at  the  thin  smoke 
and  at  the  ash  graying  deliberately  over  the  red  coals. 
Sometimes  he  turned  his  head  to  look  pensively  at 
the  smooth,  warm  bronze  of  the  childish  face;  and 
once,  clearing  his  voice,  he  reflectively  murmured 
that  they  would  certainly  be  changed;  that  he  must 
expect  his  three  boys  to  be  greatly  changed.  By 
wistful  degrees  he  began  talking  more  openly  of 
them,  and  about  their  mother,  Singing  Thrush.  A 
long  while  he  talked,  even  though  the  small  listener 
wriggled  and  considered  it  very  tiresome  gabble,  all 
this  which  had  never  before  been  confided  to  any  one. 
" Their  mother,"  Andy  was  saying,  "is  a  Dakota 
woman.  When  I  went  away  she  didn't  make  a 
rumpus.  Afraid  she  would,  but  she  didn't.  She 
began  to  pack  up  everything,  and  to  take  down  the 
lodge.  For  she  didn't  understand;  she  thought  she 

was  going  with  me So  I  had  to  tell  her  that  was 

not  the  way  of  it.  Made  her  understand  I  was 
going  back  to  my  people.  Going  home,  that's  it — 
going  by  myself — going  home.  Even  then  no  tears. 
She  turned  her  palms  upward  toward  the  sky,  and 
next  held  them  toward  the  ground,  and  then  passed 
her  hands  down  over  me.  It  was  prayer.  She  was 
asking  the  Sun-Father  and  our  Mother,  the  Earth, 
to  guide  me  and  bless  me,  and  keep  me.  No  tears. 
She,  I  mean,  didn't  let  me  see  her  cry,  but  I  remember 
what  she  said.  She  tried  to  use  English,  because  she 
thought  I  would  like  that.  'Mebbeso  you  going 


184  Wine  o    the  Winds 

£bme  back  to  us  sometime.  Because  for  why?  For 
because  we  love  you'." 

Big  Andy  fell  silent,  all  the  while  looking  beyond 
the  feeble  radius  of  fire-glow  into  the  night  where 
everything  appeared  very  dark. 

"At  first,"  he  went  on,  "I  didn't  mean  to  tell  her 
I  was  going  away.  I  even  started  off  without  tell 
ing.  But  I  was  not  doing  right.  I  knew  it.  I  felt 
mean  and  cowardly — a  regular  sneak.  So,  then,  I  had 
to  turn  back.  I  took  her  some  presents:  calico, 
needles,  some  awls  to  use  in  making  skin  covers  for 

the  lodge Yes,  well;  I  went  back.  I  told  her 

how  it  was.  I  told  her,  and  afterward  I  could  not 
forget  her.  I  tried.  Over  two  years  I  have  been 
gone.  I  have  been  in  the  war,  a  soldier  for  three 
months.  And  I  could  not  forget."  He  looked  at 
Arthur  again,  stroked  the  boy's  soft  hair,  and  muse- 
fully  smiled.  "Now,  you  see,  I  am  on  my  way  to 
find  them,  my  little  boys.  To  find  them,  and  their 
mother,  Singing  Thrush." 

Doctor  North  groped  for  the  fingers  gently  strok 
ing  Arthur's  hair;  and  as  the  two  men  linked  hands, 
they  did  not  look  at  each  other,  but  looked  only  into 
the  night,  into  the  black,  black  void. 


CHAPTER  V 

Skulls 

A  CITY  thoroughfare  could  not  be  more 
jammed  with  traffic  than  was  the  main  street 
of  this  prairie  settlement,  in  the  heart  of  the 
Pawnee  country,  the  village  of  Columbus.  Now 
passed  a  flock  of  bleating  sheep,  a  woolly  mass  of 
them  dustily  blurring  along  in  the  wake  of  wagons 
bound  for  Oregon.  Shouts  resounded.  Two  train 
masters,  in  heated  altercation,  vehemently  disputed 
as  to  which  of  them  should  be  given  right  of  way. 
Some  score  of  mules,  in  a  loose  herd,  came  straggling 
along,  following  the  lead  of  a  gray  mare  whose  bell 
clanked  monotonously. 

Sultry  smells  emanated  from  the  commotion: 
odours  of  tar  and  sweat  and  a  dry  fragrance  of  hay. 
All  of  these  exhalations  seemed  more  acridly  pene 
trating  by  reason  of  a  tune  which  some  fifer  had 
begun,  while  a  teamster,  exhibiting  his  dexterity, 
kept  a  long  ox-whip  snapping  in  time  to  the  harsh  and 
high-pitched  shrillings. 

As  the  wide  street  was  congested  with  draft  animals 
and  wagons,  so  was  the  space  in  front  of  the  post- 
office  densely  thronged.  The  delivery  window  could 
only  be  reached  after  waiting  a  long  while  in  the  line 
of  people  extending  out  upon  the  walk  in  serpentine 
convolutions. 

185 


1 86  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Not  understanding  why  Big  Andy  should  stand 
apart  from  the  line  of  humanity  ever  working  on,  by 
gradual  stages,  toward  the  delivery  window,  Harry 
North  said,  by  way  of  accommodation: 

"If  you  give  me  a  written  order,  I  think  I  may  be 
able  to  get  your  mail  for  you." 

The  man  in  buckskin  went  on  rubbing  tobacco  be 
tween  his  palms.  "No,"  he  said,  "you  needn't 
bother.  There  won't  be  any  mail.  Not  for  me." 
He  rilled  a  corn-husk  slip,  and  rolled  himself  a  ciga 
rette.  "I  only  stick  around,  watching  out  for  Matt. 
A  body  has  to  look  after  him  a  little.  Drinks,  you 
understand.  Drinks  too  much.  Hard  on  him  if 
he  don't  get  a  letter  when  he's  expecting  one.  And 
he  drinks." 

"What,  the  little  hunchback  has  a  wife?  Or  is  it 
a  sweetheart?" 

"Not  a  wife,"  said  Andy,  with  smoke  straining  up 
ward  through  his  yellow  moustache.  "Nor  a  sweet 
heart.  No,  neither  one  nor  t'other.  But,  I  tell 
you:  it's  a  school  teacher,  an  old-maid  school  teacher 
back  in  Ohio.  You've  heard  him  bragging,  maybe, 
about  his  affairs  with  women.  Lies.  All  lies.  As 
if  there  could  be  women  who  would  think  twice  about 
that  misshapen,  ugly  little  runt!  Never  was  a 
woman,  I  reckon,  who  thought  twice  about  him  ex 
cept  that  Miss — I  forget  her  name — Martin,  I  be 
lieve.  Yes,  that's  it:  Amelia  Martin.  And  her  letters 
aren't  much.  It's  only  that  he's  one  of  her  boys. 
She  loves  them,  her  boys.  And  most  of  them,  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  have  forgotten  her.  But  he  never 
will.  Not  Matt.  Starts  in,  days  ahead  of  time,  to 
work  himself  up.  Says  there  won't  be  any  letter. 


Skulls  187 

Needn't  expect  it.  No,  no;  not  this  time.  Later 
on,  maybe,  but  not — and  thus  and  so.  And  gets 
drunk,  you  understand,  if  the  letter  doesn't  come." 

When  the  wagons  passed  out  of  town  the  hunch 
back  no  longer  walked  beside  his  oxen.  In  one  of 
the  prairie  vans  he  had  been  put  to  bed;  and  now  his 
heavy  vehicle  rumbled  along  as  a  trailer,  behind  Big 
Andy's  wagon. 

When  the  prairie  vans  halted  at  noon  in  a  green 
valley  two  of  them  were  still  wet  and  dripping,  for 
they  had  risked  the  quicksand  in  crossing  the  wide 
tributary  of  the  Platte,  a  river  known  as  the  Loup. 
The  other  vans  had  been  passed  across  the  stream 
by  means  of  the  rope  ferry  similar  to  the  one  back 
home,  on  the  Elkhorn. 

After  their  midday  meal  the  men  idled  in  the  shade 
of  a  wagon,  but  did  not,  according  to  custom,  spend 
this  drowsy  hour  in  sleep,  because  two  strangers  had 
"throwed  in"  with  them,  as  the  saying  goes.  These 
individuals  (one  being  a  person  of  surly  diffidence 
and  the  other  a  fellow  of  aggressive  talkativeness) 
might  spoil  the  siesta  time  and  be  rather  a  bore,  yet 
were  not  disdained. 

Polite  interest  the  little  hunchback  tried  to  take 
in  what  was  being  said:  but  the  drolleries  he  re 
ceived  as  something  vastly  solemn;  he  tittered  when 
laughter  was  untimely,  and  he  smiled  at  the  dullest 
things,  as  if  they  might  be  enormously  entertaining. 
Sometimes  Matt  took  on  a  very  studious  look,  as  if 
trying  to  decide  whether  this  garrulous  big  fellow 
were  one  person  only,  or  twins,  or  triplets.  Even 
the  water  bucket,  which  Arthur  had  lugged  up  from 
the  river,  seemed  to  multiply  itself.  Matt  made  a 


1 88  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

pother  in  getting  hold  of  the  tin  cup;  he  spilled  nearly 
as  much  water  as  he  conveyed  to  his  dry  and  un 
steady  mouth. 

"Looks  good.  Clear  and  cool,"  said  the  talkative 
stranger  when  the  drinking  pail,  in  going  the  rounds, 
had  been  passed  to  him.  "But  no,  I  guess  I  won't 
wet  my  whistle,  not  with  water  that's  fetched  from 
one  of  those  little  pits  scooped  out  of  the  sand. 
Likely  to  have  land  seepage  in  it,  impurities  of  one 
kind  or  another,  alkali.  Roily  water  of  the  flowing 
river  is  healthier,  a  whole  lot  healthier.  Pilgrims 
and  bull-whackers,  all  along  the  Platte,  used  to  drink 
from  those  holes  dug  in  the  sand;  but  my  men,  when 
I  was  wagon-boss,  had  orders  not  to  drink  that  kind 
of  water.  Too  much  sickness.  Cholera." 

"Pretty  bad  at  one  time,"  Big  Andy  observed,  and 
dipped  a  brown  finger  into  a  dissolving  wraith  of 
cigarette  smoke.  "Cholera  .  .  .  yes,  pretty 
bad.  Might  be  that,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  would 
explain  a  scaly  sight  we  came  across  one  day  on 
Lodgepole  Creek.  A  stranded  train,  wagon-sheets 
all  whipped  to  dirty  rags  in  the  wind,  bows  like 
skeleton  ribs.  Sixteen  wagons  corralled.  Each 
tongue  holding  harness  for  a  four-mule  team.  Leather 
brittle-stiff,  rusty,  curled  up  like  a  cast-off  shoe 
on  an  ash-heap.  Nothing  in  the  wagons.  Wheels 
shrunk,  tires  falling  off.  What  really  happened  to 
that  outfit  I  don't  know.  Never  heard."  His 
shoulders  shrugged  uneasily  as  he  added:  "A  queer 
feeling  they  give  a  body,  such  things  do.  Mighty 
queer!" 

44 Teamsters  lit  out,"  the  voluble  stranger  observed. 
"Got  panicky,  and  stampeded.  That's  it,  most 


Skulls  189 

likely — just  that.  Scairt  of  cholera,  took  the  stock, 
and  whiffed  like  bats  out  o'  hell.  And  I'll  eat  your 
shirt  if  once  I  didn't  have  the  like  of  that  tried  on 
me.  Seems  like  the  graves  along  the  trail,  so  many 
new-made  graves,  had  throwed  a  scare  into  my  out 
fit.  Never  did  I  see  a  bunch  of  mule-skinners  get 
to  looking  so  fever-eyed  and  suspicious.  Thought 
they  was  ailing,  fussed  about  their  victuals,  com 
plained  of  gut-ache.  I  didn't  like  the  way  things 
were  shaping  up.  Any  day  I  might  get  left 
stranded,  high  and  dry.  So,  of  course,  the  damned 
nonsense  had  to  be  stopped.  Wagons  weren't  going 
to  be  left  stalled  out  there  on  the  prairie — not  if  / 
could  help  it.  Wouldn't  do  to  spoil  my  freight,  or 
have  it  lugged  off  by  Indians.  If  it  did  spoil,  the 
lads  with  the  outfit  could  just  bet  their  bottom 
dollar  that  a  tolerable  sight  o'  corpses  was  going  to 
spoil,  too." 

Arthur,  as  he  lay  on  his  stomach  chewing  a  grass 
blade,  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  square-jawed 
face  of  the  talker,  whose  red  and  bulbous  nose  re 
vealed  a  net-work  of  purple  veins.  Not  until  the 
youngster  had  been  touched  a  second  time  on  the 
shoulder  did  he  get  up  reluctantly,  to  go  away  with 
Doctor  North  toward  the  ox-drove  grazing  near  the 
river. 

The  stranger  continued  his  narrative.  He  had 
opened  his  shirt  in  front,  and  the  husky  voice  seemed 
to  rumble  up  out  of  that  massive  chest  of  his,  all  dark 
with  hair  like  a  gorilla.  Now  and  again  his  wagon- 
mate  cast  at  him  glances  not  merely  of  mistrustful 
scorn  but  of  vindictive  malice.  It  was  hate.  It 
was  the  hate  of  a  subjugated  wild  beast  fearing  its 


190  Wine  o    the  Winds 

master.  Doubtless  he  had  bitterly  fallen  out  with 
his  burly  associate. 

"When  supper  fires  had  been  lit,"  the  heavy- 
jowled  man  was  saying,  "I  called  around  to  each 
mess,  to  have  my  little  say.  Had  found  out  who  the 
leaders  were.  There  are  always  leaders.  One  of 
them  got  some  ribs  caved  in.  Another  coughed  up 
his  front  teeth." 

That  the  back  of  a  man,  as  well  as  his  face,  may 
reveal  what  is  going  on  in  him,  could  not  be  better 
illustrated  than  by  the  stiff  erectness  of  Doctor  North 
while  he  withdrew,  with  the  little  boy  beside  him. 

The  stranger,  meanwhile,  paused  in  his  recital  and 
even  let  a  tinge  of  apology  creep  into  the  harsh  rug- 
gedness  of  his  voice. 

"Not  a  sweet  job.  No,  it  wasn't.  But,  in  a  time 
like  that,  what's  to  be  done?  Can't  lay  down.  Can 
you  ?  Not  much !  Got  to  do  something.  Do  some 
thing  showy,  just  to  let  folks  know  who's  boss.  .  .  . 
Once,  that  night,  I  felt  a  wind  whizz  by  in  the  dark, 
close  to  my  head.  But  didn't  sabey  not  at  first,  what 
flew  past.  Stuck  in  a  wagon-box,  it  did — went 
flunky  and  quivered.  Somebody  had  throwed  a 
knife." 

"Did,  eh?"  inquired  One-Eyed  Mike.  "A  Mexi 
can?" 

"That's  it,  a  greaser."  After  a  pause,  the  ex- 
wagon  master  added:  "Mexicans,  it  seems,  have 
thin  skulls.  Can't  stand  much  booting  in  the  face. 
Now  if  it  had  been  a  nigger.  .  .  ." 

"Ever  notice,"  the  gaunt  Missourian  interrupted, 
"that  wolves  don't  care  for  a  Mexican  stiff?  Not 
their  kind  of  meat.  Might  be  his  flesh  is  too  high 


Skulls  191 

flavoured  with  the  pepper  he's  et,  same  as  a  sage- 
hen  tastes  bitter-strong  of  sage.  Fact,  anyhow:  a 
greaser  carcass  will  only  dry  up  on  the  prairie,  and  not 
get  his  bones  stripped.  Some  says  it's  because  a 
Mexican  smokes  so  many  cigarettes  and  gets  hisself 
too  much  seasoned  with  tobac'.  But  I  don't  believe 
that.  Don't  sound  reasonable.  .  .  .  Well,  and 
did  you  fetch  your  train  through  all  right?" 

"I  did.  No  cholera.  One  death  only."  Looking 
at  the  heavy  toes  of  his  scuffed  and  dusty  boots,  the 
talkative  stranger  added:  "Does  beat  all  what  a 
thin  skull  he  had,  that  knife-slingin'  greaser!" 

Now  it  was  that  the  hunchback  laboriously  an 
nounced,  as  if  he  were  treating  the  camp  to  a  remark 
able  piece  of  news: 

"There  goes  doc.  Him  and  the  boy.  I  see  him. 
It's  doc.  He's  catchin'  up  his  bulls.  And  what  for? 
Hey,  what  for?" 

"Lay  down,  Matt,"  Big  Andy  admonished.  "You 
better.  And  get  some  sleep." 

"But  it's  doc.  Ain't  it?  Sure  it  is.  I  see  it's 
doc.  And  the  boy  with  him." 

Something  paternal  sounded  in  Andy's  voice  as 
he  explained: 

"That's  it:  watching  out  for  the  little  rooster. 
Our  talk  is  too  nightmarish  for  the  little  tad.  He 
don't  want  the  boy  getting  an  earful  of  this  gab." 

The  surly  man  gave  an  assenting  nod.  At  the 
same  time  his  malevolent  face  shifted  expression,  his 
mouth  stretching  into  a  grin  like  a  snarling  animal. 

"Pretty  talk,  ain't  it?"  he  droned  in  sulky  mo- 
roseness.  "But  that's  it — that's  what  he's  like. 
Wants  to  tell  things  scarey.  For  my  benefit,  that's 


192  Wine  o    the  Winds 

why.  My  skull,  you  see — my  skull  may  be  thin,  too. 
There!  That's  what  he's  a-drivin'  at." 

In  squinting  portentousness  the  powerful  fellow 
looked  at  his  wagon-mate.  "Bawl  away,"  he  recom 
mended.  "Do  it.  Snivel,  why  don't  you?" 

Hopeful  of  intervention,  bringing  his  complaint  to 
these  men  as  to  a  court  of  public  opinion,  the  surly 
fellow  whined  in  half-cringing  defiance: 

"Owns  the  team  and  wagon,  he  does.  The  bar 
rels  of  liquor  are  mine.  Share  and  share  alike — 
that  was  the  agreement.  Fifty  per  cent,  he  was  to 
get  when  we  sold  out.  Full  barrels  when  we  started. 
Not  a  cluck  to  them.  But  now  what?  Uses  a  gim 
let.  Sucks  out  whiskey  with  a  straw  or  a  pipestem. 
Carries  a  coffee  pot  that  goes  slush-slush  as  he  walks 
along.  It's  whiskey — my  whiskey.  Thinks  I  don't 
sabe  that,  and  him  half  drunk  all  the  while." 

Shrugging  his  powerful  shoulders,  the  other  man 
observed  with  a  tone  ominously  bland: 

"I  wouldn't  get  too  windy,  if  I  was  you.  Spoils 
things,  too  much  chin-music  does." 

Big  Andy  rose  at  once.  He  got  up,  gazed  sternly 
down  at  the  strangers,  and  with  magisterial  delibera 
tion,  without  much  raising  his  voice,  called  to  Harry 
North. 

"I  say,  Doctor,  wait  a  bit.  Come  back.  You 
and  the  little  shaver  better  finish  your  nooning." 
Giving  the  quarrelsome  partners  another  coldly 
judicial  stare,  he  added:  "For  these  other  two  boys 
are  going  to  pull  their  freight.  Yes.  They're  going 
to  pull  out.  And  do  it  now." 

Glum  surprise  showed  in  the  faces  of  the  whiskey 
freighters.  They  remained  silent.  They  exchanged 


Skulls  193 

glances.  Finally  the  surly  one  observed  with  a  wry 
grin,  which  once  again  disclosed  two  black  snags 
of  his  broken  teeth: 

"Going  to  roll  out,  are  we?  No,  we  ain't.  Not 
us!  Not  till  we're  good  and  ready." 

"The  road's  open,"  said  Andy.     "You're  ready." 

"Do  tell!"  muttered  the  man  whose  hairy  and 
sunburned  chest  now  warmed  to  a  brighter  red. 
"Maybe,"  he  added,  "you  own  this  ground." 

"You  might  figure  it  that  way,"  One-Eyed  Mike 
asserted.  "A  good  salubrious  way  to  figure." 

Mart  Allen  drawled  in  an  offended  tone: 

"They  got  liquor.  A  barrel's  tapped.  And  they 
don't  say,  'Have  a  drink.'  Stingy  guts!" 

In  the  broad,  hard  palm  of  Andy's  hand  a  silver 
watch  looked  strangely  small,  but  seemed  to  tick 
with  exaggerated  loudness. 

"Men,"  he  announced,  "in  fifteen  minutes  you're 
going  to  be  on  your  way.  You  hear  me." 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  the  two  undesirables 
were  not  quite  that  expeditious.  A  full  twenty 
minutes  had  elapsed  before  their  wagon,  drawn  by 
two  span  of  oxen,  got  creakily  in  motion. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Sweet-Lipped  Messenger 

BIG  Andy  fell  a-grumbling.  He  grumbled 
confidingly  to  his  oxen;  for  he  could  see  no 
sense  in  a  military  restriction  now  being 
enforced  by  the  post  commander  at  Fort  Kearney. 

West  of  that  point  small  wagon-trains  were  not  al 
lowed  to  go;  for  it  was  held  unsafe  to  travel  into  the 
Sioux  country  with  a  force  of  less  than  twenty-five 
armed  men. 

"Tomfoolery!"  Andy  could  be  heard  muttering. 
"Nothing  but  tomfoolery." 

Alarms,  however,  had  recently  spread  wide  among 
the  settlements.  Refugees  were  moving  eastward. 
Wagonloads  of  women  and  children  from  ranches 
farther  west  had  been  sent  to  Fort  Kearney;  other 
families  were  travelling  to  Grand  Island,  to  Columbus, 
to  Fremont,  to  Omaha. 

From  day  to  day  rumours  multiplied.  It  was  said, 
but  not  credited,  that  only  yesterday  two  cattle- 
herders  on  Bijou  Creek  had  been  killed  in  a  foray 
of  raiding  Sioux.  One  indisputable  fact  was  known : 
to-day  a  guard  of  soldiers  mounted  the  top  of  the 
Overland  Mail  coach,  when  the  stage  set  out  from 
Kearney  station.  West-bound  passengers  had  stop 
ped  at  that  point,  deciding  to  wait  there  a  day  or 
two,  or  even  a  week,  in  the  hopes  that  the  supposed 

194 


The  Sweet-Lipped  Messenger  195 

threats  of  a  general  uprising  might  prove  groundless. 
Suspicions,  forecasts  of  trouble  had  so  increased 
within  the  last  week  that  wagon  masters  had  been 
halted  by  telegrams  from  their  employers.  Im 
migrant  trains,  likewise,  had  prudently  corralled 
their  wagons  rather  than  brave  unnecessary  risks. 

"Nonsense/*  Big  Andy  maintained.  "Sheer  tom 
foolery.  That's  all  it  is:  it's  tomfoolery." 

But  was  it?  He,  of  course,  would  think  so,  since 
he  affectionately  understood  the  red  men  of  the  plains 
and  did  not  know  how  much,  in  the  period  of  his 
absence,  the  Dakota  and  the  Cheyenne  had  been 
harried  by  imbruting  mistreatment.  Being  an 
adopted  tribesman  of  the  Sioux,  how  could  he  believe 
that  there  would  be  danger  for  him  in  traversing  the 
Indian  country? 

One  night,  at  the  westernmost  limit  of  the  territory 
claimed  by  the  Pawnee,  camp  had  been  made  at  a 
place  separated  from  the  military  reservation  by  a 
moist-smelling  and  gray  spaciousness — the  Platte's 
sombre  expanse  of  gurgling  water.  The  black-blue 
darkness  rimming  the  river  had  been  studded,  all 
up  and  down  the  valley,  by  sparks  innumerable — 
fires  of  the  bivouacked  army  of  freighters  and  im 
migrants. 

Andy  and  his  companions  discussed  that  halted 
traffic;  and  in  the  pauses  of  their  talk  they  listened 
to  a  confusion  of  sounds  drifting  far  into  space  from 
across  the  river. 

Pawnee  scouts,  a  whole  battalion  of  them  recently 
mustered  as  federal  soldiers,  had  begun  to  hold  some 
kind  of  soiree  or  weird  ceremonial.  Tom-toms 
throbbed  in  deep-toned  consonance,  and  with  their 


196  Wine  o9  the  Winds 

glum  pulsing,  pulsed  likewise  the  vociferant  wildness 
of  a  warrior's  chant.  Owl  hootings  whimpered,  a 
bull  bison  roared,  and  through  the  night  a  wildcat 
ferociously  screamed. 

"They  are  good  at  it,"  Big  Andy  observed,  "good 
mimics.  It  appears  that  the  Pawnee,  like  nearly  all 
Indians,  can  imitate  every  kind  of  animal  cry." 

The  wagon-company  fell  silent,  the  better  to  listen 
to  the  vocal  performances  of  the  red  men;  for  it  had 
grown  noticeable  that  the  Indians  were  trying  to 
enlarge  their  repertory  by  including  the  calls  of  the 
sentries  at  the  garrison.  By  and  by  a  soldier  an 
nounced  with  intoning  solemnity: 

"Post  Number  Five.     Ten  o'clock.     All's  well." 

And  with  precisely  the  same  intonation  a  Pawnee 
echoed  the  sentinel: 

"Pos'  Number  Five  Cents.  Tin  ol'  rock.  Go  to 
hell!" 

The  Indian  seemed  proud  of  his  achievement.  He 
had  whooped  gloriously. 

Chuckling  appreciation  went  the  rounds  of  the  men 
about  the  camp-fire;  and  Doctor  North  observed: 

"Arthur  will  surely  want  to  have  a  look  at  those 
scouts.  We  shall  go  over  there  in  the  morning;  for 
say  what  you  will,  I  sha'n't  want  to  take  the  boy  with 
me  into  the  Sioux  country.  No,  he  had  better  be 
heading  for  home.  I  shall  send  him  back  by  stage." 

Next  day,  accordingly,  when  North  crossed  the 
river,  horseback,  it  was  with  his  juvenile  companion 
behind  him.  The  double  mission  taking  him  to  the 
south  side  of  the  Platte  was  to  see  whether  there 
would  be  any  mail  awaiting  him  at  the  post-office 
of  the  army  post,  and  also  to  make  arrangements 


The  Sweet-Lipped  Messenger  197 

for  the  return  of  Arthur  to  that  place  of  departure, 
away  back  yonder,  on  the  Elkhorn  River. 

Now,  for  a  youngster  to  have  been  a  freighter,  clear 
to  Fort  Kearney,  and  finally  to  be  going  back,  a 
stage  passenger,  all  by  himself — only  fancy  the  im 
portance  of  it,  the  dizzy  pinnacle  of  distinction !  An 
event,  an  astounding  exploit,  this  memorable  homing 
journey! 

Picture  his  arrival  in  Tecon  City,  the  bewildering 
glory  of  it,  his  wild  scamper  up  the  hill,  the  strutting 
first  hour  of  welcome,  with  eager  ears  listening  to  the 
report  of  his  adventures. 

Far  more  intently  than  the  others,  his  Aunt  Alice, 
from  the  very  first,  was  an  absorbed  listener  to  every 
thing  he  had  to  say.  Never,  it  is  certain,  had  she 
harkened  to  the  talk  of  her  small  nephew  with  such 
acute,  such  particular  attention,  or  with  such  mani 
fest  uneasiness.  It  was  as  if  she  might  be  saying  to 
herself: 

"What  next?  When  is  he  going  to  speak  of  that 
— that  creature?" 

Connie  also  grew  uneasy.  It  was  insufferable 
for  him  to  hear  Arthur  tell  how  his  fists  had  been 
rammed  into  the  wonderfully  big  muzzles  of  cannon, 
on  the  parade  ground  at  Fort  Kearney.  The  brazen 
chambers,  in  sober  earnest,  were  not  very  big;  they 
were  even  disappointingly  small.  So,  why  not  en 
large  them? 

Arthur  did  it.  He  gave  the  family  to  understand 
that  those  howitzers  shot  a  ball  as  big  as  your  head. 
Yes,  and  bigger! 

He  also  gave  the  Pawnee  scouts  a  character. 
No  matter  that  he  had  really  been  distressed  by  their 


198  Wine  o    the  Winds 

unsoldierly  appearance,  he  did  his  best  to  improve 
their  looks. 

Blouses  and  blue  army  trousers  had  been  issued 
to  the  Indians — also  hats.  But  what  does  an  Indian 
want  with  a  hat?  It  may,  of  course,  be  an  interest 
ing  thing  to  throw  in  the  air;  and  that  is  precisely 
the  use  the  brown  battalion  had  made  of  their  civ 
ilized  headgear.  Whooping  and  yelling,  the  Pawnees 
raced  their  ponies  in  a  wild  charge,  and  a  dark  cloud 
would  suddenly  rise  and  go  swooping  away,  helter- 
skelter,  like  a  whirlwind  of  delirious  black  birds.  Then 
came  the  sport  of  seeing  which  rider  could  scoop  up  a 
harvest  of  hats,  to  send  them  sailing  again,  in  another 
dizzy  flight. 

As  for  the  Pawnees'  dress-parade  appearance — 
hum!  Never  mind  that.  Of  how  dreadfully  queer 
they  looked  Arthur  wouldn't  say  a  word,  because  he 
thought  it  not  at  all  nice  for  soldiers  to  cut  the  seats 
out  of  their  trousers. 

From  several  of  the  Pawnee  saddles  a  brace  of  blue 
pennants  had  fluttered  out.  Trousers,  of  course! 
They  were  trousers  used  for  ornamental  effect.  Fully 
half  of  the  troopers,  with  black  hair  roached  and 
brown  bodies  glistening,  wore  no  garment  other  than 
a  breech-cloth.  One  had  nothing  on,  nothing  at  all, 
except  a  pair  of  brass  spurs. 

Upon  his  arrival  home  Arthur  had  not  wanted  to  be 
kissed  by  Florence.  That  sort  of  attention,  even 
from  Dockey  North,  had  seemed  improper.  All  the 
more  so,  because  Matt,  the  hunchback,  had  seen  the 
farewell  kissing.  Arthur  did  not  want  to  remember 
that  one  kiss  had  been  for  himself,  and  that  another 
had  been  given  him  to  take  to  his  Aunt  Alice.  The 


The  Sweet-Lipped  Messenger  199 

little  boy  did  not  mean  to  give  it  her — not  ever.  For 
he  wished  to  think  of  Dockey  North  as  of  one  who 
does  not  go  in  for  such  foolishness  as  kissing. 

It  was  not  easy,  all  the  same,  to  keep  from  giving 
her  what  his  man-comrade  had  sent.  Especially  not 
easy,  because  Dockey  had  said:  "You  won't  forget, 
will  you?"  Arthur,  with  a  hasty  mumble,  had 
promised  not  to  forget. 

Nor  had  he  forgotten.  There  was  the  trouble. 
He  wished  he  could  forget.  This  hopeless  remember 
ing  was  almost  as  sad  a  blow  to  his  manhood  as  the 
necessity  of  wearing  a  nightie  again,  or  the  obligation 
of  saying  his  prayers. 

To  all  that  Arthur  told  about  his  wonderful  ad 
ventures  Alice  had  been  listening  with  specialized 
interest.  For  any  moment,  now,  he  might  begin  to 
speak  of  that  prairie  girl.  As  yet  he  had  not  men 
tioned  her,  and  next  day  it  was  the  same:  he  talked 
and  talked,  but  at  no  time  was  there  any  reference  to 
Winifred  Barton.  Could  it  be  possible,  then,  that 
her  unexplained  disappearance  from  Tecon  City 
had  no  relation  to  the  going  away  of  Doctor  North  ? 
All  the  same,  she  was  the  sort  of  person  capable  of 
running  after  a  man.  Quite  capable  of  it! 

Had  she,  perhaps,  identified  herself  with  the  wagon- 
train  which  Arthur  had  been  describing?  Ever  since 
the  departure  of  Doctor  North  this  suspicion  would 
not  down.  It  kept  on  throbbing  with  singular 
pertinacity  in  the  mind  of  Alice  Arden.  Hers  was  a 
distressed  feeling  that  sooner  or  later  something  of 
alarming  significance  must  surely  turn  up  in  the  talk 
of  her  little  nephew.  And  seeing  that  nothing  did 
turn  up,  Aunt  Al  repressed  her  tantalizing  inquisi- 


200  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

tiveness.  It  would  be  ignoble,  she  thought,  to  ask 
questions;  it  would  be  all  of  a  piece  with  listening  at 
key-holes. 

Now  and  again  Florence  criticized  her  brother's 
big  stories,  calling  attention  to  their  discrepancies, 
their  essential  falsity;  but  Aunt  Alice,  understanding 
the  imaginative  vigour  of  childhood,  admonished  her 
niece  not  to  interrupt. 

Always,  after  one  of  his  sister's  disapproving 
comments,  the  traveller  would  adhere  more  strictly  to 
matters  authentic,  only  dressing  them  up  a  little  with 
fanciful  and  spectacular  trimmings. 

In  all  that  he  said  there  had  been  no  word,  not  a 
syllable  about  the  song,  the  mysterious  singing  of  the 
plains,  nor  of  the  sweet  tinkling  of  the  guitar  played 
one  night  in  the  wagon-camp.  Neither  would  Arthur 
be  likely  to  remember  such  trivialities. 

Finally  his  aunt,  being  always  at  grips  with  a 
painful  possibility,  could  no  longer  resist  the  impulse 
ever  tugging  at  her.  Let  it  be  a  low  trick  or  not; 
let  it  be  prying  and  spying  or  what  you  will,  she  made 
inquiries.  Taking  on  an  unnatural  look,  she  asked 
questions.  Had  Arthur,  by  any  chance,  seen  some 
thing  of  Miss — Miss — what's-her-name? 

Since  the  little  boy  could  only  look  puzzled  over 
this  unilluminating  question,  Alice  at  once  explained 
herself.  With  a  smile  of  face-stiffening  artificiality 
she  added,  moistening  her  lips: 

"  I  mean  the  young  lady  whose  father — was  so  un 
fortunate He  died.  Heart  failure.  Barton 

is  the  name.  That's  it,  Barton.  I  don't  suppose, 
Arthur,  that  you  saw  anything  of  Miss  Barton,  did 
you — while  you  were  gone?" 


The  Sweet-Lipped  Messenger  201 

"  See  her  ?    Why,  no,  Aunt  Al.     How  could  I  ? ' ' 

It  struck  him  as  an  odd,  as  a  very  absurd  idea;  and 
although  he  did  not  notice  anything  singular  in  his 
aunt's  expression,  the  sharp  eyes  of  Florence  took 
in  the  heightened  colour,  the  ungovernable  reddening 
warmth  which  brightened  the  young  woman's  cheeks 
and  forehead  and  throat,  and  then  died  out,  leaving 
only  a  strange  pallor. 

" Miss  Barton ?  No,"  said  Arthur.  "What  makes 
you  ask?" 

"Why,  I  thought  that  perhaps But  you 

didn't?  Of  course  you  wouldn't How  well 

you  look!  It  has  agreed  with  you,  this  journey. 
And  how  many  interesting  things  you  saw!" 

They  might  be  that;  but  she  was  no  longer  ab 
sorbed  in  the  little  boy's  tremendous  romancing. 
She  even  seemed  to  grow  absent-minded.  For 
heigho,  poor  Alice  Arden!  Once  she  had  found  out 
what  she  wanted  to  know,  she  was  no  better  pleased 
than  if  she  had  remained  in  ignorance. 

For  what  had  been  the  lure  of  the  trail  for  Harry 
North?  What  might  it  signify,  this  needless, 
dangerous,  wrong-headed  enterprise  of  his?  Was 
it  the  old  sorrow  that  had  made  him  restless?  Had 
remorse  strangled  love?  Must  the  plague-spot  go 
on  gnawing  his  soul  forever? 

In  times  past  she  had  been  indignant  over  her 
lover's  treatment  of  her.  But  here,  finally,  there 
was  no  self-interest.  She  was  grieving  for  his  lost 
happiness. 

One  evening,  after  Arthur  had  gone  rebelliously  to 
bed,  in  a  nightie,  he  lay  awake  a  long  while.  He 
listened  to  the  regular  and  even  breathing  of  his 


202  Wine  o    the  Winds 

sister  and  brother,  both  sound  asleep.  He  also 
listened  to  the  squeak  of  the  needle  as  it  was  drawn 
through  some  cloth  by  his  Aunt  Alice.  With  head 
bent  over  her  work,  she  was  sewing  by  the  table,  in 
the  light  of  two  candles. 

By  and  by  the  little  boy  raised  himself  up,  and 
looked.  Her  head  had  sunk  forward;  inclining  so 
near  to  the  flames  that  Arthur  wondered  whether  the 
coppery  ringlets  would  not  presently  catch  fire.  He 
noted,  too,  that  her  thimble  no  longer  glinted.  Her 
still  hands  lay  deep  sunk  in  the  sag  of  her  skirt. 
She  did  not  move  when  he  crept  stealthily  out  of 
bed.  Neither  did  she  stir  when  his  bare  feet  went 
pat-patting  across  the  floor. 

He  went  up  to  her.  He  impulsively  flung  his  arms 
about  her  neck,  giving  her  the  very  biggest  hug  he 
knew  how  to  give.  She  felt  his  breath  upon  her 
cheek,  the  sweet,  warm  breath  of  childhood;  and 
next  she  felt  his  red  mouth  pressed  against  hers  in  a 
kiss  of  special  tenderness. 

"From  him,  it's  from  him,"  the  little  boy  blurted 
out,  and  ran  back  to  bed.  But  he  could  not  under 
stand  why,  all  at  once,  his  Aunt  Alice  should  fall 
a-crying  with  gasping  breaths  and  hard  sobs,  exactly 
like  a  child. 


PART  VI 
NIGHT 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Loves  of  Men 

ON  THE  day  when  Arthur  started  home  Big 
Andy  had  been  very  impatient  to  enlist  the 
required  force  of  armed  men,  and  so  had  been 
trying  persuasion  on  the  cautious  immigrants,  in  the 
hope  that  some  of  the  wagons,  at  least,  might  brave 
the  risks  of  traversing  the  upper  reaches  of  the  valley, 
through  the  country  claimed  by  the  Ogalalla  Sioux. 
Doctor  North  and  Matt  returned,  meanwhile,  from 
the  Fort  Kearney  side  of  the  river;  and  although  the 
hunchback  had  not  visited  the  notorious  village 
south  of  the  army  post,  the  Dobe  Town  of  obscene 
rascalities  and  atrocious  whiskey;  although,  in  truth, 
he  had  drunk  not  a  drop,  he  was  giddy,  all  the  same — 
quite  giddy,  actually  intoxicated  with  elation.  He 
had  received  a  letter.  He  pretended  to  have  received 
other  letters  also;  and  he  talked  of  them,  he  wanted 
it  understood  that  they  were  amatory  epistles  won 
derfully  ardent.  Even  when  Big  Andy,  coming  back 
from  the  other  wagon-camps,  began  to  discuss  the 
outlook  for  further  travel,  Matt  could  hardly  listen 
to  anything  that  was  said. 

"It's  Doug,  right  enough — Doug  Davis,"  the 
yellow-haired  man  announced.  "A  twelve-wagon 
outfit;  blasting  powder  for  the  mines.  Suits  him  to 
organize  a  train  with  us,  and  he  won't  be  caring  a 

205 


206  Wine  o   the  Winds 

particular  cuss  who  gets  elected  wagon-boss.  All 
he  wants  is  to  be  pushing  on.  That's  it.  That's 
how  it  stands.  So  what  we  got  to  do  is  to  elect 
Doc  North." 

Coming  out  of  a  brown  study,  upon  hearing  his 
name  spoken,  North  made  the  surprised  inquiry: 

"Elect?    Who  is  it  you  want  to  elect?" 

"Not  the  skull-buster,  Dobe  Dan,"  Allen  as 
serted.  "A  cinch  we  won't  stand  for  him  being  cap 
tain.  But  he's  pulled  in,  with  his  whiskey  wagon, 
and  he's  after  the  job." 

Much  to  the  chagrin  of  that  burly  candidate 
election  did  indeed  fall  upon  North;  and  seeing  that 
preferment  had  come  to  him  in  terms  of  assured  con 
fidence,  one  might  suppose  that  he  would  feel  mildly 
elated.  He  might  certainly  have  had  some  zest  for 
the  honour,  if  only  he  could  have  brought  himself  to 
regard  it  as  a  thing  ipleasing  to  Alice  Arden. 

A  letter  from  her,  newly  received,  the  young  man 
re-read  with  a  view  to  discovering  some  of  the  old 
sweetheart  extravagances  which,  in  former  days, 
had  made  his  blood  beat  fast.  She  still  esteemed 
him;  he  had  no  doubt  of  that.  But  what,  after  all, 
if  it  were  only  a  disciplined  self-respect  which  had 
been  keeping  her  staunchly  loyal? 

The  great  trouble  with  him,  as  with  all  men  who 
disparage  themselves,  was  his  mistrust  of  others', 
good  opinion.  Her  presence  hovered  before  him. 
He  would  like  to  think  that  the  passion  of  her  heart 
could  never  be  for  any  one  else;  and  yet  the  skepti 
cism  of  his  own  hurt  soul  denied  to  him  the  faith 
which  once  had  been  so  compellingly  his. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  furtively  putting  the  letter 


The  Loves  of  Men  207 

away,  when  Big  Andy  came  to  talk  with  him;  "I 
wonder  whether  you  have  ever  felt  that  you  were  no 
good."  North  began  to  examine  a  roster  of  the 
wagon  company  whereon  were  listed  the  names, 
the  kind  and  amount  of  freight,  the  ages  of  the 
children  in  the  immigrant  contingent,  and  the 
number  of  defensive  weapons  available.  "Have  you 
felt,"  he  went  on,  "that  your  life  had  somehow  got 
into  a  hopeless  mess  and  muddle?  But  no;  don't 
answer.  None  of  my  business." 

The  sunset  gun  of  Fort  Kearney  spread  its  boom 
ing  echoes  far  down  the  river  before  the  plainsman 
asserted  in  a  tone  mildly  critical: 

"You  despise  yourself.  And  I,  of  course,  know 
what  that  is;  I  know,  I  know  exactly  what  that  is. 

For  I,  too But  I'm  feeling  better,  now  that 

we're  organized  and  fixed  to  move  out  of  this.  Want 
to  get  to  my  family. 

"You  know  what  things  I  have  in  my  wagon;  but 
you  don't  know  what  they're  meant  for.  Presents 
— that's  it — presents,  little  gifts  of  one  kind  and 
another.  Useful  things,  too:  blankets,  shawls,  axes, 
kettles,  cloth.  For  Singing  Thrush,  you  understand 
— for  her,  my  wife,  and  my  wife's  people." 

A  pleased,  proud  look  had  come  into  the  blue  eyes 
of  the  yellow-haired  man;  he  went  on  talking  with  a 
tone  gruffly  tender: 

"When  I  give  out  these  things,  her  relatives  will 
be  pleased;  they'll  be  pleased,  of  course — but  not  so 
very  grateful.  For  gift-giving,  among  the  Dakota 
people,  is,  you  see,  very  common;  it's  the  rule  of  life. 
Among  the  Indians  I  have  not  known  a  greedy  man. 
Not  one.  There  are  no  poor.  Old  people  who  get 


208  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

past  their  usefulness  are  not  neglected,  but  held  in 
respect  and  taken  care  of.  My  wife,  when  she  takes 
the  store  of  wild  beans  which  the  field  mice  gather, 
wouldn't  be  mean  enough  to  rob  them;  she  gives 
them  corn  in  return  for  the  beans  she  takes 
away " 

Andy  was  silent  awhile,  before  he  thoughtfully 
repeated: 

"Good  hearts — nice  ways,  if  you  come  to  under 
stand  them." 

Even  though  North,  hearing  this,  might  not  be  in 
a  humour  to  listen  well,  he  could  not  miss  being 
astonished  and  touched  that  this  uncouth  fellow 
should  talk  of  the  tribespeople  with  such  feeling  and 
fineness  of  appreciation.  One  might  almost  be 
moved  to  discuss,  with  such  a  man,  a  vexing  secret  of 
the  heart;  but  any  impulse  Harry  North  may  have 
had  to  do  so  had  soon  been  quenched,  owing  to  the 
grotesque  display  which  Matt,  the  hunchback,  was 
making  of  the  letter  he  had  brought  back  from  the 
Kearney  post-office. 

This  squat  individual,  with  a  head  abnormally 
large  and  set  neckless  between  hunched  shoulders, 
had  found  it  impossible  to  keep  from  bragging  once 
more  about  his  amazing  good  fortune.  Behold  this 
letter!  Everybody  was  to  observe  his  wonderful 
letter.  He  called  to  Andy  and  to  North;  they  were  to 
come  and  hear  certain  choice  passages  of  it. 

Seated  on  the  ground  between  Mike  and  Allen,  the 
queer  fellow  flourished  the  written  pages;  he  waved 
them,  he  smiled,  he  took  on  a  smart,  conceited  look. 
Love  letters,  he  made  out,  were  nothing  new  for  him. 
You  were  to  believe  that  he  received  them  often. 


The  Loves  of  Men  209 

From  Rose,  for  instance.  He  mentioned  Rose  in 
particular.  Ah,  that  Rose!  Adorable  creature! 

"Rose,  eh?"  said  Mike.  "Is  she  the  same  as 
Myrtle?" 

"No,  Myrtle  is They're  not  the  same." 

"That  so?  Well,  now,  I  had  an  idea  that  Rose  and 
Myrtle  and  Sary  and  Sal  and  Mehitable  were  all  the 
same  party." 

"Drop  it!"  Matt  demanded.  "Quit  your  fun 
ning."  And  he  went  on  talking  about  her,  that 
adorable  Rose.  "Such  dark  hair,  such  eyes!  Not 
tame,  neither,  but  gay  and  giddy.  Likes  to  show  her 
ankles.  Now  Violet,  on  the  other  hand,  she's 
different.  Altogether  different.  Not  so  lively,  sort 
of  haughty,  a  lot  of  style  to  her.  And  all  right! 
Bet  your  life  she  is.  A  damnation  fine  gal !  Full  of 
virtuousness. 

"She's  a  blonde,"  Matt  asserted,  "that's  what 
Violet  is,  a  blonde.  And  good  looks?  Oh,  I  say,  a 
beauty,  the  finest  a  body  ever  laid  eyes  on!  They 
don't  make  blondes  any  more  peaches-and-creamier 
than  what  Violet  is!" 

Big  Andy  looked  away,  cleared  his  throat,  grew 
ashamed,  and  presently  said: 

"Why  tell  lies?  Who's  going  to  believe  you? 
What's  it  for?" 

"Folks  don't  have  to  believe  me,"  Matt  brazenly 
retorted.  "I  don't  care  whether  they  do  or  don't 
believe  me.  It's  so,  anyhow,  every  word." 

Smiling  and  happy,  he  went  on  reading  the  letter 
from  that  someone  of  motherly  heart,  from  that 
friend  of  his  boyhood,  the  old-maid  school  teacher, 
the  one  woman  in  all  the  world  who  had  ever  both- 


210  Wine  o    the  Winds 

ered  to  write  him  any  letters.  Doubtless  she  never 
knew  what  they  meant  to  him.  It  is  quite  as  well, 
perhaps,  that  she  was  never  to  know  what  amazing 
and  outrageous  romances  he  had  built  upon  them. 
And  yet,  when  the  need  for  writing  them  would  pres 
ently  be  past,  it  might  be  good  for  her  to  know  how 
gracious  a  thing  her  kindness  had  been  to  him! 

This,  the  last  letter  he  was  ever  to  receive,  would 
one  day  be  found  wofully  crumpled  in  his  hand,  while 
he  lay  all  huddled  together,  in  a  buffalo  wallow,  with 
his  cartridges  utterly  shot  away,  and  an  Indian  arrow 
through  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  II 

Indian   Country 

KJN  had  fallen  in  the  night.  Now  the  dust 
of  the  trail  lay  speckled  and  pitted  into  dark 
dimplings  left  by  one  of  those  hard-pelting 
storms,  quick  to  come  and  pass.  Deliciously  the 
day  had  dawned,  with  air  washed  clean,  a  world  all 
fragrant  with  verdant  spaciousness.  A  keen  prairie 
odour  had  especially  been  released  by  the  moisture 
from  bushy  gray-green  clumps  of  the  wild  sage. 

By  the  tread  of  bright  tires,  slowly  rolling  at  the 
head  'of  the  column,  the  rain-pricked  dust  was  being 
ironed  smoothly  into  streaks.  Wet  wagons  shone 
in  the  sun,  drenched  canvas  sagged,  and  gilded 
shower  drops  fell  away,  now  and  again,  in  a  little 
topaz  glitter  of  brilliant  sparks. 

The  caravan  had  changed  the  customary  method  of 
travel.  Instead  of  stretching  out  in  a  careless  defile, 
this  was  by  no  means  a  straggling  procession.  Un 
necessary  gaps  would  not  be  permitted.  An  em 
phatic  order  had  been  issued  on  this  point,  and  was 
being  obeyed  with  strict  exactitude. 

After  the  organized  train  set  out,  a  feeling  rather 
out  of  the  ordinary  manifested  itself;  for  this,  finally, 
was  the  beginning  of  the  danger  zone — Indian 
country.  Every  minute  of  the  time  people  kept 
thinking  of  that.  Not  that  they  expected  anything 

211 


212  Wine  o    the  Winds 

to  happen.  Nothing,  of  course,  would  happen. 
Certainly  not!  And  yet  the  lumbering  procession 
continued  its  journey  with  a  ponderous  gravity 
hardly  less  solemn  than  a  funeral  cortege. 

Letters  had  been  written  to  friends  and  relatives, 
back  yonder  in  the  States.  Belts  sagged  heavily 
with  cartridges.  In  the  wagons  loaded  rifles  had 
been  put  in  places  convenient  to  reach.  But  before 
the  hour  of  noonday  rest  at  last  arrived,  what  a 
weighty  and  thumping  encumbrance  the  heavy  six- 
shooters  had  come  to  be ! 

By  and  by,  as  apprehension  thinned  away,  the 
teamsters  began  to  banter  one  another,  to  joke  about 
their  "hip-howitzers"  and  even  about  the  dread 
commonly  shared.  When  a  man  called  Hair-Minus 
Hicks  used  a  shirt-sleeve  to  wipe  his  perspiring  bald 
ness,  an  ox-driver  lustily  called  out: 

"Why  don't  you  dress  your  head  more  respectable, 
and  not  try  to  cheat  the  scalp-histers?" 

A  thickset  and  heavy  individual  shouted  to  a  lank 
Missourian  called  Toothpick  Tom: 

"You  ought  to  be  tol'able  safe,  I  reckon,  from 
gettin'  pegged  by  an  Injun  arrow.  And  gosh-all 
fish-hooks !  I  wisht  I  was  built  like  a  ramrod,  same 
as  you!" 

Despite  the  grisly  note  of  these  jests,  they  roused 
a  sort  of  derisive  merriment.  Men  laughed,  and  it 
was  not  forced  laughter.  For  consider  that  out  of 
the  thousands  of  wagon-trains  passing  up  and  down 
this  valley  of  the  Platte,  not  many  of  them,  relatively 
very  few  of  them,  had  been  assailed  by  raiding  bands 
of  Sioux. 

This    outfit,    likewise,    would    have    no    trouble. 


Indian  Country  213 

Others  might;  not  this!  The  heavens,  dreaming 
their  blue  dream  in  magical  serenity,  seemed  to  give 
blessed  assurance  that  nothing  could  happen. 

In  mid-afternoon  the  train  master  rode  back  to  the 
plodding  column  after  selecting  a  place  with  good 
grass  and  water,  suitable  tor  the  night  camp.  After 
ward  he  cantered  along,  appearing  now  on  one  side 
of  the  wagon-train,  now  on  the  other,  but  in  a  manner 
so  casual  and  unofficious  as  scarce  to  suggest  that 
he  might  be  the  caravan's  commander.  Quiet, 
meagre  of  speech,  apparently  detached,  he  seemed 
quite  unobservant;  but  already  the  wagon  company 
had  acquired  an  awed  confidence  that  he  saw  every 
thing,  knew  everything,  felt  every  pulse-beat  of  life 
in  the  whole  procession  of  twenty-six  wagons. 

Once,  while  passing  Doug  Davis,  the  train's 
second  in  command,  North  said  with  bland  incisive- 
ness: 

"One  of  your  teamsters,  at  three  minutes  past  ten, 
lit  his  pipe  and  dropped  the  match,  still  burning. 
Not  the  thing,  Doug.  You  will  tell  Shag  Miller  it 
is  not  the  thing." 

"With  the  grass  getting  so  dry,  bull-whackers  ought 
to  know  enough,"  Davis  conceded,  "  to  pinch  a  match 
or  spit  on  it  before  throwing  it  down." 

"They  ought,"  North  agreed.  "Another  thing," 
he  went  on,  "hereafter  the  men  of  your  outfit  will 
not  light  their  mess  fires  so  near  the  wagons.  Blast 
ing  powder  being  what  it  is,  they  will  be  doing  well, 
you  know,  to  remember  that  it  is  not  twelve  loads 
of  building  sand." 

At  the  foot  of  the  train  North  passed  the  driver  of 
the  cavayado,  the  drove  of  freighters'  work  cattle 


214  Wine  o'  the.  Winds 

combined  with  immigrant  milch  cows,  which  kept 
moving  along  behind  the  rear  wagons.  Where  the 
smirching  clouds  fumed  up  most  densely,  with  an 
alkaline  irritation  of  eyes  and  throat,  some  of  the  men 
wore  goggles.  The  herd-boy,  so  Doctor  North 
observed  as  he  rode  by,  not  only  protected  his  vision 
with  green  glass,  but  wore  a  dampened  sponge  tied 
under  his  nostrils.  When  given  genial  greeting  by 
the  train  master,  the  youth  did  not  answer  but  diffi 
dently  nodded,  then  exerted  himself  unduly  by  prod 
ding  a  lazy  ox  with  his  carajo  pole. 

The  agile  and  feline  grace  of  the  lad,  with  his  red 
silk  neckerchief  carelessly  knotted,  and  the  brim  of 
his  sombrero  turned  down,  left  with  North  a  pictu 
resque  and  pleasing  impression,  but  one  which  rather 
piqued  his  curiosity.  He  even  had  the  notion  that 
the  driver  of  loose  cattle,  for  some  reason  inexplicable, 
had  purposely  avoided  speaking  to  him. 

Merely  a  fancy,  perhaps — a  passing,  idle  fancy! 
But  after  nightfall,  when  he  called  at  the  wagon 
where  Mrs.  Ross  was  busy  with  her  camp  arrange 
ments,  he  said  to  her,  with  a  manner  rather  studiously 
casual: 

"Am  I  wrong  in  thinking  that  the  boy  who  often 
drives  the  cavayado  is  a  messmate  with  vou  and  Judge 
Ross?" 

The  woman  answered  in  a  guarded  tone: 

"Yes,  he  camps  with  us." 

Saying  so,  she  grew  suddenly  voluble,  talking  of 
other  matters. 

"I  have  seen  the  lad  on  a  good  saddler,"  North 
observed,  refusing  to  have  the  conversation  diverted. 
"Not  your  horse,  is  it?" 


« 


'You 


are  not  going  to  shirk,  you  contemptible  braggart, 
you  are  going  to  do  your  full  share/" 


Indian  Country  215 

With  a  swift  flutter  of  her  dress  she  sped  from  him 
as  if  in  dread  lest  the  contents  of  the  black  kettle 
might  have  boiled  dry  and  begun  to  scorch.  A  pre 
text?  Could  it  be  a  mere  pretext  for  not  wanting 
to  discuss  his  question? 

However  much  Harry  North  may  have  cared  to 
pursue  his  inquiries  regarding  the  horse  and  rider, 
and  whether  the  herd-boy  was  one  to  sing  songs  and 
perhaps  play  the  guitar  of  an  evening,  the  time  for 
acquiring  such  information  must,  apparently,  be 
put  off  until  some  hour  more  opportune.  For  now, 
as  it  chanced,  official  demands  cut  short  his  investiga 
tion. 

Someone,  smirchily  revealed  in  the  darkness,  had 
said: 

"Hey,  boss;  that  you?" 

Recognizing  the  voice  of  the  assistant  wagon  mas 
ter,  North  replied: 

"Well,  Doug,  what's  up?     Want  me?" 

"Don't  know  as  I  do.  Just  wanted  to  report  that 
three  men  are  night-herding  for  the  first  watch." 

" Three?     But  there  should  be  four." 

"You  said  so — yes;  and  there's  the  hitch.  Num 
ber  Four  wants  to  see  the  colour  of  the  man's  hair 
that's  going  to  make  him  do  herd  duty." 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"Ordered  him  out;  that's  all — so  far.  Thought  I 
better  ask  first,  before  getting  a  hole  shovelled  to  plant 
him  in." 

"Quite  right,"  said  North;  and  lifting  his  hat  to 
Mrs.  Ross  as  he  departed,  he  went  away  with  his  as 
sistant  into  the  thickening  darkness,  now  brightly 
studded  at  intervals  by  camp-fires  vividly  glowing. 


2i 6  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

"It's  the  defeated  candidate,"  said  Doug.  "The 
skull-smasher,  the  Right  Honourable  Dobe  Dan." 

"So? — See  that  shooting  star?  A  bright  one. — 
On  the  prod,  is  he?  Wants  to  horn  somebody? — 
Often  a  star  like  that  is  mistaken  for  an  Indian  fire- 
arrow.  A  lot  of  talk  about  fire-arrows,  but  Andy 
says  there's  nothing  in  it.  Smoke-signals,  certainly; 
but  as  for  the  flaming  shaft,  it's  something  he  never 
saw  used  except  once.  And  that,  he  says,  was  to 
scare  some  wild  animal  out  of  a  tree." 

Having  crossed  the  inner  space  of  the  wagon-corral, 
North  and  his  companion  now  advanced  upon  their 
objective  point,  a  fire  where  loud  talk  of  men  com 
bined  with  the  sound  of  bacon  greasily  a-sputter 
in  a  camp  skillet.  A  teamster  with  his  face  yellowed 
by  the  flames  had  a  strained  and  squinting  look,  as 
with  a  concentrated  effort  to  distinguish  who  might 
be  approaching.  But  the  burning  brightness,  with 
its  halo,  had  doubtless  made  difficult  the  task  of 
seeing  far  beyond  the  radius  of  illumination;  for  in 
peering  across  a  camp-fire  the  contrasting  darkness 
is  always  sure  to  appear  black  as  a  hole. 

He  was  seen  to  nudge  a  neighbour.  Others  lis 
tened,  the  frying  pan  was  lifted  from  the  coals,  the 
noisy  babble  and  sputtering  died  out.  A  single  voice, 
however,  kept  up  a  raucous  syllabification.  The 
talker  got  cumbrously  to  his  feet,  the  whole  massive 
front  of  him  turning  russet  in  the  fire-glow. 

"Want  me  to  shut  up,  do  you?  Mustn't  talk!" 
He  gruffly  laughed  in  the  harshness  of  his  scorn. 
"What  you  scairt  about?  Scairt  somebody's  going 
to  hear  me?" 

Someone  cautioned  in  a  low  voice: 


Indian  Country  217 

"Drop  it,  Dan.     You  better!" 

He  laughed  again.  With  his  menacing  bulk 
towering  over  them  he  looked  down  from  above  the 
fire  as  if  trying  to  discover  what  sort  of  human  in 
sects  they  were,  those  half-dozen  messmates  of  his. 
"Must  have  worms,  the  way  you're  acting!"  he 
asserted,  with  bullying  aggressiveness,  while  the 
others,  with  faces  turned  from  the  light,  sat  mute, 
gazing  into  the  darkness,  ever  striving  to  descry  the 
moving  shapes  whose  martial  tread  did  not  turn  aside 
but  steadfastly  advanced. 

"Scairt,"  he  repeated.  "Got  cold  feet.  That's 
the  kind  of  junipers  you  are.  And  see  what  you've 
got  for  it.  See  what  kind  of  tenderfoot  youVe  got 
for  wagon-boss.  Must  have  four  men  on  night-herd. 
Why  four?  Yellow!  That's  why.  Two's  enough; 
but  he.  .  .  .  Yellow,  he's  yellow.  Got  to  have 
four  men.  Shaking  in  his  boots." 

His  challenging  sneers  abruptly  ended.  Two  men 
strode  into  the  encircled  radiance  cast  by  the  fire. 

"Don't  mind  us,"  the  slighter  of  them  observed 
with  insinuating  quietness.  "  Go  right  ahead.  Let's 
hear  the  rest  of  this,  by  all  means.  You  were 
saying^  .  .  ." 

Raspingly  Dobe  Dan  cleared  his  throat,  and  held 
still  while  the  fireshine  glinted  in  his  glowering, 
bloodshot  eyes.  But  he  did  not  speak.  He  seemed 
to  have  emptied  himself  of  words. 

Doug  Davis  coughed.  A  man  by  the  fire  moved 
uncomfortably.  The  wagon  master  said: 

"Sit  where  you  are.  Don't  any  of  you  get  up. 
You  have  listened  to — ah — to  this  oration.  You 
will  also  listen  to  me.  Believe  it,  or  not,  this  train 


2i 8  Wine  o   the  Winds 

is  going  through  to  Denver.  You  are  going  to  help 
it  through,  every  mother's  son  of  you.  If  I  say, 
'Stand  guard,*  you're  going  to  stand  guard.  There 
will  be  no  shirks."  He  paused,  his  voice  gaining 
incisiveness  as  he  added:  "You  will  do  your  work, 
or  I'm  going  to  know  the  reason  why.  The  sort  of 
caterwauling  that's  been  heard  here  is  going  to  stop." 

A  teamster  spat  decorously  to  one  side.  Another 
drew  his  belt  tighter,  dug  a  boot-heel  into  the  ground, 
and  thickly  mumbled: 

"Yes,  Cap.  All  right,  Cap.  But  it  ain't  us  that's 
been  a-blowing  off." 

"Not?  But  you  listen,  all  the  same.  Like  to  hear 
it.  Find  it  amusing.  ...  As  for  this  bloat- 
belly,  who  thinks  he's  going  to  run  things,  I  know 
about  him.  Has  been  making  his  brag  that  I  won't 
see  Pike's  Peak.  Won't  I,  though  ?  Why  won't  I  ? " 

An  alert  stride  brought  North  close  to  the  broad- 
chested  individual  bulking  head  and  shoulders  above 
him.  The  commander's  right  foot,  deftly  swinging 
as  he  moved,  knocked  a  tin  coffee  pot  into  a  bumping 
flight  of  clanking  somersaults.  Some  of  the  con 
tents  darkly  splashed  the  dusty  boots  of  Dobe  Dan, 
so  that  from  them  and  from  the  ground  all  about  him 
a  strong  smell  of  spilt  whiskey  sharply  whiffed  into 
space. 

Surprised  and  winking,  unable  for  the  moment  to 
comprehend  what  had  happened,  the  stalwart  fellow 
of  heroic  mould  sniffed  the  alcoholic  odour  rising  in 
keen  fumes  from  his  dripping  boots.  Then  a  snorting 
grunt  came  from  him. 

"You!"  he  bellowed,  with  a  mighty  heave  of  his 
capacious  chest,  "you  skunk!" 


Indian  Country  219 

His  arm  doubled  back,  a  powerful  arm  terminating 
in  a  hulking  paw  now  grimly  lumped  into  knuckly 
bronze.  The  heavy  fist  ponderably  swung;  it  swung 
— hung  poised,  and  swung  again,  strangely  delaying 
its  stroke  of  stone-crushing  capability. 

Why  pause?  Why  should  eyes  red-rimmed  with 
vindictive  rage  be  held  captive  by  the  gray  gaze  of 
eyes  bleakly  peering?  And  how  should  the  wagon 
master,  looking  nowhere  but  into  the  inflamed  feroc 
ity  of  those  bloodshot  eyes,  understand  also  what  was 
passing  outside  his  range  of  vision.  He  even  spoke 
to  his  assistant: 

"Steady,  Doug.     Keep  your  hand  off  that  gun." 

Nothing  was  heard  for  a  time  save  the  choked 
and  wheezy  pantings  of  the  bull-necked  Dobe  Dan. 
Then,  the  moments  of  crisis  still  holding,  the  men 
about  the  fire  uneasily  stirred  as  with  the  impulse 
of  self-preservation,  to  get  out  of  the  way. 

"Sit  still,"  North  commanded. 

They  sat  still.  Two  turned  their  faces  aside. 
One  smiled  knowingly — smiled,  for  a  shrewd  percep 
tion  was  his  that  the  wagon  master  would  need  no 
assistance  and  no  weapon  for  the  subjugation  of  this 
menacing  bully.  The  better  to  observe  how  it  was 
to  end,  the  watcher  held  up  a  hand  to  shade  his  face 
from  the  firelight,  noting  at  once  that  the  steely 
look  had  gone  out  of  the  chief's  eyes.  Now  they 
shone  with  a  strange  brightness.  The  gleam  of 
scorn  had  come  into  them,  the  cold  gleam  of  an  im 
mense  scorn  austerely  concentrated.  With  deadly 
quietness  North  was  saying: 

"You  are  not  going  to  shirk,  you  contemptible 
braggart.  You  will  do  your  share  of  night-herd  duty, 


220  Wine  o    the  Winds 

the  same  as  any  man  in  this  outfit.  Now,  to-night, 
you  are  going  to  do  it.  Right  away!" 

"I  will,  eh?" 

"You  will." 

Sobered  and  still,  shamefaced,  humiliated  before 
his  messmates,  Dan  gave  his  bulky  shoulders  a 
shambling  shrug.  "Herd-duty — sure,"  he  glumly 
conceded.  "Do  my  shift."  Who  knows  but  what  it 
had  been  borne  in  upon  him,  with  the  clearing  of 
his  faculties,  how  in  the  better  years  of  his  life — 
years  of  decision  and  unbefuddled  capability,  be 
fore  besotted  flabbiness  begun — that  he,  too,  as 
a  wagon  master,  had  faced  more  than  one  situation 
similar  to  this?  And  who  knows  but  what  the  rags 
of  decency,  which  may  cling  to  a  man  even  in  his 
brutish  state,  had  not  more  influenced  him  to  knuckle 
under  than  the  commander's  force  of  will  ? 

"Do  my  shift,"  he  repeated,  and  began  backing 
away,  unhurriedly  withdrawing,  taking  plenty  of 
time,  as  if  extreme  deliberation  might,  somehow, 
help  a  little  to  save  his  face. 

So  retreating,  he  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when 
he  seemed  to  dissolve  into  the  night,  being  absorbed 
by  the  black  reaches  of  darkness  beyond  the  fire. 
But  mutterings,  harshly  and  raggedly  articulate, 
kept  coming  back  from  the  void: 

"All  right.  ...  Do  my  shift.  ...  I 
will.  But  just  wait:  he  ain't  through  with  me. 
He's  going  to  squawk,  right  enough.  He  is  .  .  . 
before  I  get  done  with  him." 


CHAPTER  III 

Smoke 

BESIDE  Big  Andy  walked  one  of  the  immi 
grant  children,  a  little  girl  wearing  a  blue 
sunbonnet;  for,  when  in  the  right  mood,  he 
would  sometimes  relate  Dakota  wonder  stories, 
the  beautiful  legends  about  the  stars  or  the  animal 
people,  those  charming  Indian  fancies  so  richly 
stored  up  in  his  memory.  To-day,  however,  he  did 
not  speak  of  such  things. 

He  had  begun  to  gaze  with  narrowed  eyes  into  the 
sun-glare  of  late  afternoon,  with  the  circular  solitude 
of  the  northwest  particularly  drawing  his  attention. 
He  adjusted  his  hat-brim,  he  halted,  he  studiously 
peered,  giving  to  that  thin-girdling  edge  of  the  world, 
now  faintly  violet  as  always,  a  concentrated  scrutiny. 
For  why  should  the  horizon's  unattainable  frontier 
seem  vaguely  to  shiver?  An  illusion,  perhaps;  one 
of  those  astounding  freaks  of  the  sun's  refracted 
light. 

All  at  once  he  said: 

"That's  good.  First  rate."  Something  new  had 
come  into  his  voice,  something  brisk  and  spirited 
instead  of  the  mild  and  rather  prosaic  droning  with 
which  he  usually  spoke. 

"What's  good?"  the  little  girl  inquired. 

Big  Andy  did  not  reply.     He  watched  the  slant  of 

221 


222  Wine  o    the  Winds 

dust  as  it  smoked  up  from  hoofs  and  wheels,  to  go 
scudding  away  in  powdering  whiffs  from  the  road; 
and  as  puffs  of  breeze  came  running  over  the 
plains,  in  eccentric  gusts  of  sultriness,  he  noted  with 
keen  interest  the  jerky  whiskings  of  sun-bleached 
grass. 

"From  the  southwest.  Good,  that's  good.  First 
rate.  If  only  the  wind  don't  go  to  whipping  'round," 
he  went  on,  "we're  in  the  clear." 

He  snapped  his  whip  toward  the  reach  of  sky-line 
which  now  and  again  appeared  to  quiver  obscurely, 
to  be  crawling  away,  pursued  by  these  fitful  spurts 
of  fevered  wind.  Curious  phenomenon!  What  in 
the  world  could  it  be?  The  little  girl  noticed  that 
the  horizon  had  not  only  widened,  but  had  changed 
colour,  shifting  from  cool  violet  to  a  warm  and  lilac 
hue. 

"Queer!"  she  exclaimed.  It  surely  was — and 
remarkable,  too;  for  metallic  glints,  sharp  twitches, 
veinings  of  brass,  pricked  with  running  flickers  into 
the  gray-lilac  arc  delicately  widening. 

Big  Andy  said: 

"Hark,  the  wagon-boss!" 

Down  the  long  procession  Doctor  North  came  can 
tering,  steadily,  unhurriedly,  and  speaking  as  he 
came.  One  heard  his  voice,  but  for  a  time  he  still 
remained  too  far  away  for  words  to  be  understood. 
This  must  be  an  announcement  of  some  sort.  He 
was  making  it  quietly,  deliberately,  without  much 
raising  his  voice. 

"Boost  along,  men.  Brisk  up  as  well  as  you  can. 
A  half  hour  or  so  should  bring  us  to  a  marsh.  Have 
grain  sacks  and  water  buckets  ready." 


Smoke  223 

Farther  down  the  rank  of  teams  Doug  Davis  had 
taken  up  the  order,  repeating  it  with  a  tone  more 
brusque  and  vibrant: 

"Lively.  Prod  up.  Shove  'em  along.  We  cor 
ral  at  the  slough." 

The  commander,  drawing  nearer,  was  heard  to  say: 

"Safe  enough,  while  the  wind  holds  where  it  is. 
Be  ready,  everybody,  with  grain  sacks  and  water 
buckets." 

Nearer  and  more  aggressively  loud,  the  assistant 
wagon  master  kept  asserting: 

"Cool  heads  and  quick  work  is  what  we  want 
when  we  get  there.  We  back-fire.  Need  grain 
sacks  and  water  buckets." 

The  little  girl  sped  away  to  the  wagon  of  her 
parents.  Whips  cracked.  Teamsters  yelled.  Scur 
ries  of  dust  continuously  swished  up  more  densely 
from  the  trail,  while  to  the  west,  and  north  of  west, 
the  vague  long  line  of  dainty  lavender  kept  warming 
more  and  more,  until  by  and  by  it  appeared  to  steam 
mildly  like  thawing  frost.  Metal  filings — copper, 
brass,  and  gold — seemed  to  be  stippled  into  that  zone 
thinly  moving  and  stretching.  Feeble  yellow  eyes 
winked  there.  Minute  marblings  of  flame  would 
shake  in  laced  loveliness  all  the  way  along — would 
pulse,  shiver,  palely  dart  and  glimmer. 

Perhaps  the  pretty  trail,  faintly  fuming,  would  not 
advance  this  way.  With  the  going  down  of  the  sun 
perhaps  these  panting  puffs  of  wind  would  likewise 
dwindle  and  die.  Would  they?  Men  hoped  so. 
Women  prayed  that  they  might. 

Tin  milk  pails  appeared,  wooden  buckets  came 
forth  from  the  wagons.  Match  boxes  were  being 


224  Wine  o    the  Winds 

passed  from  one  teamster  to  another,  in  preparation 
for  the  work  needing  to  be  done. 

Ox-teams  walked  fast,  attended  by  cries  resonant 
and  shrill,  by  gruff  yells,  by  vigorous  fusilades  of 
snapping  whips.  From  time  to  time  the  wagon 
master  reined  in  his  horse,  the  better  to  study  the 
distance. 

"Christ!"  someone  muttered.  "She's  snuffin' 
'round,  and  pullin'  stronger." 

"Not  so  bad — not  so  bad!"  Big  Andy  declared, 
and  optimistically  added:  "Nothing  to  hurt,  if  only 
the  wind  don't  work  more  to  the  north." 

"But  it  is!"  the  hunchback  asserted,  and  cast  an 
accusing  look  at  his  comrade.  "It  is,"  he  insisted. 
"Can't  you  smell  that  it  is?" 

He  was  right.  Hot  air,  acridly  tainted,  came 
puffing  by;  sudden  bursts  of  wind  carried  with  them  a 
sharp,  strong  odour  of  scorching. 

Then  the  sun  went  strange.  Having  lost  its  wide, 
white,  amazing  stare,  it  now  had  grown  weird — a 
shrunken,  spectral  sun,  bleared  and  blood-red. 

"Smoke's  thickening  up,"  said  Andy.  "It  is, 
Matt;  it  is  for  a  fact." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Fire 

A  THE  clamour  of  approaching  wagons 
three  snipe  took  wing  from  the  marsh, 
flying  away  with  melancholy  cries.  Nothing 
sounded  from  the  spacious  puddle  save  the  swishy 
rasp  of  bleached  grasses  scuffling  in  the  wind,  while 
in  the  dirty  water  the  bloodshot  sun  burned  scarlet, 
a  veiled  inflammation,  rayless  and  sanguinary. 
From  glossy  mud  round  about  this  fetid  slough  which 
lay  platter-shaped,  fifty  yards  in  breadth  and  green- 
ishly  blotched,  rose  saline  odours  of  ooze  and  alkali, 
a  sick  exhalation  of  brackish  staleness  and  stagnation. 

Once  the  loose  drove  and  the  yoke-cattle  had  been 
stoutly  penned  up  within  the  circumference  of  the 
empounding  wagons,  a  full  score  of  teamsters  de 
ployed  to  the  northwest.  Fleetly  skirting  the  marsh, 
they  stretched  out  from  the  head  of  the  miry  pond  in 
a  loose  skirmish  line;  and  here  each  man  of  them  lit  a 
fire  in  the  sere  shagginess.  Through  the  tindery 
vegetation  a  wide  girdle  must  be  burned;  an  expan 
sive  avenue  of  smoking  stubble  must  stop  the  leap  of 
flame-billows,  which,  being  still  remote,  appeared 
not  so  much  to  sweep  hitherward  as  to  creep  and 
lazily  crawl. 

Little  blue-gray  smudges,  one  after  another,  began 
to  spurt  aslant,  away  from  the  feet  of  the  men 

225 


226  Wine  o    the  Winds 

lighting  fires.  A  bucket  brigade — boys,  girls,  and 
women — helped  to  serve  the  flame-kindlers.  With 
muddy  water  hurried  from  the  slough  the  flapping 
grain  sacks  must  be  kept  wet,  so  that  whenever  the 
small  gusts  of  flame  tried  to  run  wild,  they  could  be 
rigorously  whipped  out. 

The  wind,  fortunately,  did  not  blow  with  steadi 
ness.  Strongly  it  blew,  but  in  gusty  suspirations, 
heaving  and  dying,  a  lull  after  each  scorched  and 
wheezing  sigh. 

Once,  despite  the  alert  energy  of  a  water-soaked 
extinguisher,  a  hissing  crackle  spurted  wide.  Two 
men  whipped  at  it.  A  third  ran  to  their  assistance. 
One  gasped  in  teeth-gritting  anxiety: 

"Smash  it!  Stop  it!  God  a'mighty,  boys,  she's 
getting  away  from  us!" 

A  smoke-choked  throat  grunted  with  a  cough: 
"Don't  stew!  Keep  your  shirt  on." 

It  could  be  seen  that  the  wagon  master  had  made 
preparation  against  just  such  an  emergency  as  this. 
With  vigilant  promptitude  Doctor  North,  on  his 
horse,  came  swiftly  a-gallop,  and  dragging  some 
thing  as  he  came.  It  was  something  roped  to  his 
saddle-horn — the  quarter  of  an  ox  freshly  killed. 
This  bulky  thing,  heavily  scraping  along,  made  shift 
to  crush  the  bursting  billow  of  spreading  flames. 

The  labour  continued.  Strangling  coughs  were 
heard.  With  the  sacks  vehemently  flapping,  the 
workers  were  like  grotesque  birds  ineffectually  trying 
to  fly  away.  One  man,  with  a  spark  in  his  eye, 
flung  up  his  arms,  floundered  about  in  a  queer,  scare 
crow  dance,  and  once  more  disappeared  in  the  fog  and 
tumbling  surf  of  smoke. 


Fire  227 

Alert,  quiet,  giving  few  orders,  the  commander 
watched  the  result  of  the  back-firing  activities.  With 
the  slapping  furnace  heat  in  his  face,  he  also  watched 
the  far-flung  vapour-trail  enormously  spreading, 
mightily  advancing,  ever  charging  with  a  swifter  rush. 

Flecks  of  yellow  increased.  Bursts  of  fire-foam 
spouted  up.  Breakers  of  the  mighty  burning,  be 
yond  the  thickest  tide  of  tumbling  smoke,  kept 
bounding  spectacularly  into  froths  of  sheeting  flame. 

Grimly  North  scrutinized  the  scorching  squalls, 
the  hurling  bounds  of  smoke  and  fire.  What  of  the 
powder-wagons?  Could  the  multiplying  velocity 
of  wind  cast  flaming  weeds  across  the  muddy  barrier 
of  marsh?  Could  buffalo  dung,  spinning  disks  of 
flame,  ride  the  gale  so  far  that  a  storm  of  live  embers 
would  go  hailing  down  upon  the  canvas  tops?  Could 
such  a  thing  happen  ? 

Yes,  North  thought,  and  went  dizzy,  grew  nau 
seously  sick  with  the  futility  of  plans  and  care  and 
tactical  preparation.  But  there  must  still  be  some 
thing  to  do.  Wasn't  there?  Something  as  yet  left 
undone;  some  last,  hopeful,  momentous  chance! 
If  only  the  affrighted  cattle  in  the  wagon-corral 
would  stop  their  clamour  of  mooing,  and  let  him 
think!  From  the  restless  milling  of  hoofs  inside  the 
pen  vast  dust-blurs  kept  merging  with  the  blurs  of 
smoke.  Dry,  dirty  billows  rose  and  rose,  ever 
smirching  up  over  the  wagon  tops  which  seemed  to 
hang  yonder,  above  the  ground,  like  a  dim  argosy  of 
fat,  gray-bellying  clouds. 

The  animal  bellowing  increased;  it  swelled  to  a 
diapason,  to  a  tumult  of  roaring  terror,  the  panic 
lunacy  of  animal  hopelessness. 


228  Wine  o    the  Winds 

"Poor  beasts!"  North  mused,  as  he  was  jerked 
about  by  the  nervous  jumps  and  leaps  of  his  horse. 
"There's  no  telling  how  near  they  are  to  being 
stunned,  smashed,  utterly  wiped  out!" 

As  quick  as  the  flicker  of  this  dread,  an  appari 
tion  short  and  gray,  someone  with  a  splashing  water 
bucket,  had  sprung  up  beside  his  stirrup. 

"Hey,  there,  who's  that?"  North  challenged, 
peering  down  with  smarting  eyes.  "You,  Laura? 
Listen,  then.  Keep  away  from  the  wagons.  Under 
stand?  Don't  go  near.  Don't  let  other  children  go 
near." 

Toppling  and  high,  a  bulging  cliff  of  smoke  had 
come  swelling  overhead,  with  swirls  of  fiery  butter 
flies  dancing  there,  a  prodigious  storm  of  them 
frantically  seething  and  streaming  in  the  wind.  The 
murky  turmoil  of  this  dry  tidal  wave  quite  blotted 
out  the  sun.  Darkness  shut  down.  At  the  same 
moment  the  little  girl  suddenly  felt  herself  caught 
up  from  the  ground.  How?  By  what?  She  did 
not  know  until  she  grew  aware  of  being  astride  of  a 
horse,  in  front  of  the  wagon  master. 

Then,  penetrating  and  clear  above  the  hot  crackle, 
his  voice  cut  into  the  plunging  welters  of  smoke: 

"Quit,  men!  Enough!  All  out!  Back  to  the 
marsh!" 

Again  and  again,  as  he  rode  along,  he  repeated  the 
command.  Running  shadows  answered  the  order, 
abruptly  wagging  into  view  and  dissolving.  One 
of  these  phantom  shapes  remained  beside  the  horse, 
and  gripping  a  cantle-string,  gulped  for  breath. 

North  said: 

"Hullo,  Andy.     That  you?" 


Fire  229 

Twice  clearing  his  dry  throat,  the  big  fellow 
gasped: 

"It  ought  to  do.  Acres  burnt  over.  Big  blaze 
can't  jump  that,  I  reckon." 

Into  the  choking  fumes  the  wagon  master  shouted: 

"But  the  marsh,  if  it  were  twice  as  wide " 

"What?"  Andy  yelled.  "Oh,  the  slough.  It's 
O.  K.  All  burnt  off  on  the  west  side." 

Something  ahead  of  the  horse  abruptly  smirched 
past,  something  hardly  more  definable  in  shape  than 
a  hodful  of  ashes  dumped  into  the  wind.  "See 
that?"  Andy  called  out,  and  waggled  the  foot  of  the 
little  girl.  "Antelope.  Streaking  it,  eh?  For  dear 
life!"  Breathing  hard  in  the  smoke  and  in  the 
charred  dust  rising  from  the  stubbly  ground,  he 
hoarsely  added:  "Awhile  back  a  jackrabbit  hit  me. 
Most  knocked  me  down."  He  began  to  bemoan  the 
fate  of  little  prairie  animals.  "Tough  on  them, 
mighty  tough.  Birds,  too,  will  be  killed — ground 
birds — lots  of  them.  The  young  in  their  nests." 

Crushed  by  the  gale,  his  talk  had  flattened  to  a 
thin  vocalization,  with  only  ragged  snatches  of  it  to 
be  clearly  understood.  The  little  girl  wanted  to 
know  how  the  fire  got  started;  but  he  couldn't  tell. 
"Nobody  can,"  he  said.  "A  spark  from  a  pipe 
could  do  it,  or  a  careless  coal  left  by  pilgrims;  or  it 
could  be,  maybe,  spite  work  of  Indians." 

"Andy!  Hey,  there!"  the  wagon  master  called, 
leaning  sidewise  to  make  himself  heard. 

"What?" 

"Take  Laura.  Round  up  the  other  children  and 
the  women.  Keep  them  on  the  burnt  ground,  away 
from  the  wagons." 


230  Wine  o    the  Winds 

From  under  the  little  girl,  as  she  was  lifted,  the 
horse  seemed  to  float  away,  dissolving  with  the  sud 
denness  of  the  wild  animals  speeding  by.  Dun 
vapours  did  not  lift.  Fleeting  smothers  of  them  ran 
into  a  darkness  so  blind  that  North  could  only  find 
his  way  toward  the  wagons  by  the  roar,  the  tornado 
of  bellowings  from  the  corral. 

Though  the  haze  had  thickened  to  opaque  density, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  colossal  waves  of  panting 
heat  no  longer  held  the  blistering  menace  of  awhile 
ago.  It  might  even  be,  he  thought,  that  the  stupen 
dous  wash  of  flames  had  already  struck  the  blackened 
areas  of  back-firing,  and  there  had  stopped  with  this 
enormous  smoke-heave  of  choking  sombreness. 

Night  fell.  A  night  of  snowing  ashes,  of  gray 
darkness  going  black  with  a  suffocating  blackness. 
Sparks  danced  in  it,  witch-eyes  rode  the  gale,  a  whirl 
and  glitter  of  burning  weeds  streaked  the  gloom, 
and  all  the  while  the  spun  torches  of  the  buffalo 
chips  kept  splashing  the  murk  with  the  red  trail  of 
their  passing.  Momentarily  the  gray  wagon  tops, 
here  one  and  there  one,  blushed  under  these  wind- 
hurled  rockets,  flushing  warm  with  a  brief  and  fu 
gitive  glow. 

All  at  once  a  wagon-sheet  caught  fire.  Screaming 
blasphemy  from  someone  buried  in  darkness  bespoke 
disaster.  Flames  had  spurted  up.  By  a  malicious 
freak  of  destiny,  the  peril  had  overshot  the  wagons 
fronting  westerly,  and  had  sought  for  its  mark  one 
of  the  vans  farthest  removed  from  danger — one  of  the 
twelve  carefully  set  in  that  part  of  the  circle  where 
(as  it  had  been  supposed)  the  shower  of  flame-flakes 
would  be  least  likely  to  fall. 


Fire  231 

"Hell!"  someone  shrieked.      "A  powder  wagon!" 

North  struck  spurs  to  his  horse,  charging  in  a  des 
perate  burst  of  speed  toward  the  blaze  luridly 
spouting. 

"It  won't  explode,"  he  told  himself.  "And  if  it 
does  ? "  He  wondered  what  the  force  of  it  would  be — • 
up  or  down?  This  inconsequential  point  held  his 
thoughts.  He  puzzled  about  it.  What  a  great  stupid, 
not  to  know  what  direction  the  shock  would  take! 

Other  thoughts  mixed  with  this  worried  concern. 
He  had  torn  up  the  letter  received  from  Alice. 
But  why?  A  good  letter,  a  very  good  letter.  He 
wanted  to  read  it  again.  There  might  be  phrases  in 
it  that  he  hadn't  understood.  Hidden  meanings 

would  be  clearly  revealed,  if  only  he  might She 

didn't  love  Victor.  She  couldn't.  But  if  she  did — 
ah,  well,  good  old  Vic! 

North  plunged  from  his  horse.  He  jumped,  and 
sped  forward,  whipping  out  his  bowie  knife  as  he  ran; 
and  as  the  swift  blade  went  slitting  the  canvas,  a 
voice  on  the  other  side  of  the  wagon  began  to  shout. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  ought  to  know  who  it  was, 
that  invisible  person  of  contralto  utterance  who  kept 
calling  out: 

"Cut  away!     Cut,  cut!     Slash  'er  loose!" 

The  sheeted  blaze  began  to  lift.  Up  it  soared  like  a 
kite;  it  flapped,  folded,  swirled  into  the  wind,  a  fiery 
fleece  shorn  from  naked  wagon-ribs. 

"Water!"  shrilled  the  wild  voice  from  the  other 
side  of  the  ponderous- van.  "Douse  water!  Douse 
it,  douse  it!" 

Still  North  wondered  who  that  could  be.  The 
herd-boy,  perhaps.  Was  it? 


232  Wine  oj  the  Winds 

Near  the  wagon  master  something  whisked  from 
hub  to  tire,  from  wheel  up  the  stout-ribbed  wall. 
A  shadow-shape  like  a  bear  agilely  swung,  mounted, 
grotesquely  hoisted  itself  over  the  rim  and  out  of 
sight. 

North  likewise  made  shift  to  scale  the  gloomy  side 
of  the  black  hulk,  and  as  he  did  so  he  heard  a  hissing 
splash  of  water. 

"Got  it?  "he  asked. 

"Sure.     All  out,"  a  gruff  voice  answered. 

The  bulky  shape  kept  moving  about,  all  bent  over, 
as  one  who  might  be  carefully  investigating  for 
hidden  sparks  or  crumbs  of  fire.  He  shook  his  arms, 
flapped  his  paw-like  hands  against  his  thighs;  again, 
he  blew  into  his  palms. 

"Burn  yourself?" 

A  voice  whooping  in  the  darkness,  a  voice  in 
stantly  recognized  as  that  of  Doug  Davis,  jubilantly 
came  up  from  below: 

"Good  boys!  That  was  the  ticket,  ripping  off  the 
wagon-sheet!" 

North  came  to  the  ground,  to  be  followed  presently 
by  the  burly  shape  of  the  other  man,  who  wearily  let 
himself  down  over  the  side  of  the  wagon-box. 

"I  say,  Doug,"  the  wagon  master  instructed  his 
assistant,  "keep  the  men  moving.  Have  water 
ready."  Turning  toward  the  individual  whose 
powerful  proportions  stood  vaguely  revealed  in  the 
darkness,  he  added  with  brusque  felicitation: 

"  Good  work,  Dobe  Dan.  And  now  come  with  me. 
You  better  have  a  dressing  on  those  blistered  hands." 

Massively  dark,  the  stalwart  fellow  stood  awhile  in 
sullen  perversity;  then  his  heavy  shoulders  gave  a 


Fire  233 

shrug  of  contempt.  "Go  to  hell!"  he  muttered,  and 
stalked  away,  in  pride,  perhaps,  and  in  shame  at 
having  vindicated  his  courage. 

Would  he  now  relapse  once  again  into  his  besotted 
state?  Very  likely,  North  thought;  but  could  not 
help  looking  with  sympathetic  interest  at  that  inso 
lent  fellow  who  rapidly  sank  and  vanished  into  the 
smoke-choking  acridity,  the  ash  storm  and  black 
heat  of  the  blustering  night. 


CHAPTER  V 

Benediction 

STRONGLY  blowing,  the  wind  kept  up,  and 
all    night   long  it   blew.     The  colour  of   the 
stars,  now  a-gleam  with  an  amber  rather  than 
a  crystal  quivering,  betokened  the  presence  of  dust, 
even  though  the  darkness  had  at  last  wheezed  itself 
clear  of  smoke.     How  vast  the  burning  had  been 
could  be  appraised,  in  some  measure,  by  the  parched 
tang  of  the  wind,  by  stale  smells  of  charred  stubble 
and  crusted  earth  and  fine  ash  forever  dusting  up 
out  of  that  fevered  void,  a  wilderness  burnt  black. 

Men  slept.  They  slept  as  beings  stunned,  bowled 
over,  exhausted  by  the  immense  labour  and  strain  of 
fire-fighting.  On  the  ground,  everywhere  about  the 
wagons,  they  had  dropped  down,  too  weary  to  bother 
about  blankets.  Here  and  there  one  of  these  corpse- 
like  figures  disclosed  itself  in  the  glow  of  a  passing 
light,  a  lantern  carried  by  someone  who  seemed 
nothing  but  a  pair  of  boot-tops  with  knee-bulging 
trouser  legs  stuffed  into  them. 

Cruel  the  exigency  which  required  men  bruised  and 
spent  with  fatigue  to  stand  guard  through  endless 
watches  of  the  night;  yet  for  the  unslackened  vigi 
lance  which  the  commander  saw  fit  to  maintain  four 
sentinels  had  been  posted.  Three  of  them  expressed 
satisfaction  that  they  were  to  be  relieved  by  others 

234 


Benediction  235 

at  the  end  of  two  hours,  instead  of  serving  the 
customary  four-hour  period,  as  on  other  nights. 
Neither  did  the  fourth  man  openly  grumble.  In  the 
glow  of  the  lantern,  when  he  had  been  told  off  for 
the  first  shift,  his  dusty  face  twitched  into  a  smirk 
which  might  have  been  intended  to  express  docile 
obedience.  As  for  what  underlay  that  grimace — the 
real  feeling,  the  spleen,  the  perversity,  the  vindictive 
craft — who  can  tell  what  it  was? 

Stand  guard,  eh?  What  for?  As  if  there  could  be 
any  sense  in  it,  now  that  the  cattle  were  to  be  held 
shut  up  all  night  in  the  wagon-corral!  No,  it  was 
only  that  the  leather-head  of  a  boss — damn  him ! — 
wanted  to  impose  on  folks.  Liked  to  show  his 
authority.  He  might  find  out,  maybe,  that  he 
couldn't  trample  over  everybody. 

"Let  sleeping  dogs  lie/'  goes  the  adage;  but  what 
about  the  sullen  ferocity  of  a  vicious  man  when  he  is 
kept  awake? 

The  wagon  master  knew  how  ill  advised  it  would  be 
for  him  to  take  any  rest,  despite  the  itch  and  burn  of 
heavy  eyes;  for  Big  Andy's  random  guess  as  to  the 
origin  of  the  fire  had  been  far  from  reassuring. 
"Spite  work  of  Indians" — it  might  truly  have  been 
so.  A  plausible  hypothesis,  seeing  that  the  red  man 
of  the  plains  could  not  be  pleased  over  the  inva 
sion  of  the  buffalo  country  and  the  enormous  destruc 
tion  of  the  wild  herds  menacing  his  food  supply. 

This,  then,  was  not  a  time  nor  a  place  for  drowsy 
vigils.  Hourly,  throughout  the  windy  watches  of  the 
night,  North  must  make  certain  that  the  guards  posted 
about  the  wagon-corral  did  not  relinquish  the  plod 
ding  of  their  beats,  or  the  careful  scrutiny  of  the  dark. 


236  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Once,  in  making  his  rounds,  he  came  upon  a  dim 
bulk  propped  like  a  flabby  bolster  against  the  spoked 
radius  of  a  wagon  wheel.  Sentinel  Number  Three 
fast  asleep! 

Being  brusquely  shoved  aside,  the  fellow  staggered, 
caught  his  balance,  and  again  stood  limp  and  slouch 
ing,  with  head  sagging  heavily  as  before.  When  his 
feet  had  been  knocked  from  under  him  he  only  fell, 
struck  the  ground  with  a  grunt,  and  lay  motionless 
where  he  dropped.  After  he  had  been  much  shaken 
and  knocked  about,  he  began  to  mumble  with  languid 
surprise : 

"What's  up ?    What's  the  rumpus ? " 

"Want  to  sleep,  do  you?  We'll  get  you  a  cradle. 
Is  this  the  way  to  do  guard  duty?  Is  it?" 

"Asleep?  Me?  No,  boss,  that  can't  be  so. 
Resting  a  little.  That's  all  it  was.  Just  resting  a 
little.  Sort  o'  played  out." 

All  at  once  the  shaggy  head  of  the  sentinel  began 
to  wag  with  a  loose  and  jerking  violence. 

"Why  are  you  away  from  your  beat?"  North 
demanded,  giving  the  man  a  tremendous  shaking. 
"This  is  not  your  post.  You  know  damned  well  it's 
not.  Let  me  tell  you,  Beeson:  you  are  going  to  get 
back  where  you  belong,  or  something  is  surely  going 
to  happen  to  you." 

Catching  up  his  rifle,  after  he  had  been  flung  with 
a  rigorous  jolt  against  the  wagon  wheel,  the  guard 
went  slinking  away  toward  the  particular  spot  he 
had  been  set  to  watch.  Then,  darkness  having 
blotted  him  out,  North  returned  to  the  wagon  where 
lay  the  blanket-wrapped  cocoon  of  Big  Andy. 

"That  you,  Doc?"     A  heavy  yawn  followed  the 


Benediction  237 

question,  succeeded  by  sundry  small  sounds,  as  of  a 
dry  tongue  moving  about  in  a  sticky  mouth.  "Things 
are  quieter,"  the  sleepy  fellow  added.  "Cattle  all 
bedded  down  at  last." 

For  a  time  the  wagon  master  did  not  speak;  but 
his  quiet  voice  presently  made  itself  heard. 

"Andy?" 

"Well,  Doc?" 

"Listen,  will  you,  and  tell  me  what  you  make  of 
those  yelping  howls  off  yonder  to  the  north.  Are 
they  coyotes?" 

Without  much  hesitation  the  plainsman  answered: 

"Wolves.  Gray  wolves."  He  harkened  awhile 
longer  before  he  added:  "That's  it,  gray  wolves." 

"Thanks,"  North  murmured.  "Wanted  to  be 
sure.  For  I've  been  wondering,  rather,  whether 
Indian  signals  are  ever  sufficiently  deceptive  so  that 
even  a  practised  ear  can't  tell  them  from  the  howl 
of  these  animal  prowlers.  Sometimes  a  human  note 
seemed  to.  ...  I  very  much  wanted  to  make 


sure. 
« 


Wolves,"  Big  Andy  repeated,  while  remote  wild 
whimpers,  tenuous  and  thin,  continued  to  float  past 
in  the  black  wind  whistling  through  the  wagon  spokes. 
Feeling  somewhat  reassured,  the  wagon  master 
once  more  started  away  into  the  night  to  satisfy  him 
self  as  to  whether  the  rebuked  sentinel  had  properly 
taken  up  his  watch  at  the  station  assigned  him. 
That  particular  outpost  lay  distant  some  hundred 
yards  or  more  from  the  corral;  for  the  prairie  being 
cleft  to  the  northeast  by  one  of  those  ragged 
arroyos  common  to  the  plains,  it  was  a  place  to  be 
regarded  as  suspiciously  convenient  for  the  stealthy 


238  Wine  oj  the  Winds 

advance  of  marauders.  It  had  been  from  a  covert 
of  this  nature,  as  North  had  learned  on  competent 
authority,  that  a  band  of  Kiowa  Indians,  in  the  valley 
of  the  Republican  River,  had  crept  with  cat-footed 
craft  to  the  dismaying  surprise  of  an  immigrant  train. 

Common  prudence  demanding  that  such  a  ditch- 
like  hollow  be  carefully  guarded,  North  cautiously 
went  forward  until  he  had  reached  the  swale,  and  let 
himself  down  into  it.  Here,  entrenched  from  the 
wind,  he  continued  to  peer  about.  He  could  not  see 
his  man.  Nothing  at  all  appeared  save  the  dark  whisk 
ing  of  grasses  along  the  rim  of  the  rain-washed  gully. 

Strange  the  fellow  had  not  come  here!  Farther  up 
or  down  this  ripped  seam  of  the  earth  he  might  be 
dutifully  on  watch. 

North  began  to  tap  with  the  rim  of  a  brass  cart 
ridge  against  the  steel  of  his  bowie  knife.  As  a 
hailing  sign  he  gave  three  sharp  clicks,  and  harkened 
acutely,  to  hear  whether  the  picket  would  answer 
with  two  metallic  raps  of  a  like  character,  as  he  had 
been  instructed  to  do. 

The  wagon  master  held  his  breath — waited — 
listened — repeated  the  code.  Still  no  response. 
Until  his  eyeballs  ached  with  the  pulling  sensation 
of  forced  scrutiny  he  kept  up  his  efforts  to  see  the 
guard. 

In  this  creviced  void  an  errant  gustiness  sometimes 
caught  and  sucked  along  with  a  hollow  roaring  as  of 
heavy  seas  bursting  on  a  broken  shore.  But  since 
hereabouts  the  surf  of  wild  fire  had  not  run,  North 
could  hear  the  scratch  of  coarse  grasses  etching  the 
gloom  above  the  jagged  banks.  Up  there  sharp 
bristles  of  the  yucca  plant  stiffly  shook  in  spatters, 


Benediction  239 

inky  black,  while  sable  clumps  of  sage  also  bent  and 
brushed  about  in  wind-swept  shudderings. 

Were  they  rooted  in  the  ground,  those  jerky 
bushes?  Or  were  they  slyly  and  stealthily  creeping 
on?  .  .  .  One  hears  strange  talk.  It  is  said 
that  Indian  scouts  practise  the  deception  of  disguis 
ing  their  heads  with  crests  of  wild  sage.  But  these? 
No,  they  did  not  advance.  They  nervously  bobbed 
and  bowed  and  shivered  to  the  lashing  hiss  of  wind, 
but  did  not  leave  the  ground. 

Thoroughly  convinced  of  their  inoffensiveness, 
North  began,  for  the  third  time,  to  tap  his  knife- 
blade  with  a  cartridge.  And  now,  in  a  shiver  of 
affright,  he  caught  his  breath.  Something  had 
whizzed  by  in  the  wind.  He  could  not  be  mistaken; 
for  another  of  those  brief,  husky  sounds — another 
and  yet  another  viciously  stung  the  air.  What  could 
they  be?  Not  arrows!  Certainly  not,  for  who 
would  be  shooting  arrows  blindly  into  the  black  night? 

"  Birds !"  he  muttered,  and  chuckled,  much  re 
lieved,  after  the  scare  they  had  given  him.  Poor, 
restless  things,  he  mused;  winged  creatures  with 
nests  destroyed  by  the  fire,  and  now  flying  hither, 
forlorn  refugees,  to  this  region  where  the  grass  had 
not  been  burned!  "That's  it,  birds,"  he  repeated, 
"homeless  little  larks." 

Click — click — click!  Once  more,  and  now  for  the 
fourth  time,  he  tapped  out  that  deliberate  signal  with 
brass  and  steel.  Still  no  sentinel's  reply  from  out  the 
cavernous  gustiness  of  the  wind-humming  gully. 

But  had  not  something  moved,  down  there,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  chasm  ?  A  thin,  sooty  stain  seemed  to 
have  blotched  the  darkness  like  something  afloat 


240  Wine  o    the  Winds 

on  an  invisible  tide.  And  did  it  really  have  motion? 
Yes,  it  did;  undoubtedly  it  moved,  and  kept  moving. 
There  were  intervals  when  it  moved  fast,  with  an 
alert,  stealthy  crawling.  Presently  some  clods  and 
loosened  earth  tumbled  with  swishing  sounds  from 
the  bank,  as  if  the  secretive  shape  had  tried  to  draw 
itself  up  out  of  the  ditch. 

Instantly,  then,  the  shadowy  object  held  still,  and 
seemed  to  listen  before  creeping  forward  again — this 
time  more  cautiously.  More  swiftly,  too,  like  some 
predatory  beast  ready  to  spring. 

North  gave  a  start  as  another  bird  whizzed  by. 
He  waited.  He  heard  a  sheltered  cricket  begin  to 
trill.  The  gaunt  creature,  stealthily  crawling,  had 
plunged  suddenly  upright. 

Then,  "Halt!"  North  demanded.  "Don't  move." 
All  furtive  alertness  instantly  stopped.  He  heard 
something  strike  the  ground  with  a  clack  and  a  steely 
ring. 

"What's  this,  what's  this  ? "  he  questioned.  "What 
are  you  doing  here?" 

"Me?     I'm  on  guard.     Can  see  I  am,  can't  you?" 

"So,  Beeson,  it's  you!  Yes,  it  would  be;  it 
couldn't  be  anybody  else.  For  even  that  beefy 
partner  of  yours  wouldn't  come  crawling  here  like 
this.  A  man,  after  all,  is  Dobe  Dan.  But  you 
.  .  .  Huh,  a  good  night,  right  enough,  for  this 
kind  of  nonsense.  Meant  to  get  your  knife  into 
somebody,  did  you?  Well,  pick  it  up.  I  say," 
North  repeated,  "pick  it  up!" 

The  guard  stooped  quickly,  sidled  away,  then  came 
back  with  cheeky  protestations.  "  Was  just  scouting 
down  the  gulch  a  little,"  be  avowed,  and  sniggered 


Benediction  241 

to  show  how  laughably  absurd  it  was  that  he  had  been 
so  fantastically  misunderstood.  "Thought  I  better 
have  a  look  around.  That's  it;  that's  all  there  is 
about  it.  No  harm  meant.  No  harm  in  the  world. 
Honest  to  God,  Doc,  I  never  meant  anything." 

"Didn't?  Oh,  of  course!  You  didn't  mean 
anything.  Let  it  go  at  that.  You  can  even  explain, 
no  doubt,  why  you  left  your  rifle  behind.  Too 
noisy,  eh?  You  much  prefer  to  slit  a  throat  quietly, 
in  the  dark,  and  hide  the  body  in  tall  grass.  But 
we  won't  talk  of  that.  Far  too  disagreeable,  I'm 
sure,  for  a  person  of  your  delicate  sensibilities.  Only 
there's  this  about  it:  you'll  be  on  picket  duty  for  the 
rest  of  the  night.  If  you  expect  to  see  morning, 
you  will  keep  awake  till  then.  You  will  stand  guard 
till  sun-up.  Now  be  off,  you  blackguard.  Back  to 
your  post." 

Left  to  himself,  after  the  sentry  had  slunk  away 
with  craven  eagerness;  and  understanding  that  he 
had  come  safely  through  yet  another  crisis,  it  is 
strange  that  North  should  have  felt  within  him  a  sort 
of  grinding  ache:  a  sharp,  physical  pang  of  hunger, 
and  also  a  benumbing  surrender  to  drowsiness.  Oh, 
for  a  little  sleep!  To  let  himself  go,  to  drop  down 
anywhere  and  give  way  to  this  unutterable  fatigue! 

But  the  hunger  and  the  faintness  quickly  passed. 
For  a  feeling  stronger  than  these  demands  had  all 
at  once  come  upon  him.  Someone  was  singing.  On 
his  way  back  to  the  wagons  he  leaned  against  the 
black  night  wind,  pausing  to  be  sure  whether  a  vocal 
ization  could  actually  be  making  itself  heard  in  the 
heave  and  blustering  of  the  wild  darkness.  Since 
the  cattle  were  bedded  safely  in  the  corral,  and  did 


242  Wine  o    the  Winds 

not  require  the  song-assurance  of  the  herdsman, 
who  could  be  singing  out  here,  on  this  desolate 
heath  ?  Who,  after  such  a  day  of  strife  and  exhaus 
tion,  could  still  have  the  hardihood  to  sing? 

Harken  as  he  would,  only  faint  catches,  much  con 
fused  and  blown  about,  were  vaguely  wafted  to  his 
ears.  But  it  did  not  matter.  He  liked  the  song. 
The  wind  pushed  him  and  fumbled  him.  And  he 
liked  the  wind.  Stars  vastly  thrilled  the  fathomless 
vault  of  heaven,  and  he  liked  the  stars.  The  Milky 
Way,  that  Trail  of  the  Ghostly  Feet,  as  Indians  call 
it,  arched  the  sky  in  the  pale  peace  of  an  ineffable 
sweetness,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  soul,  like 
the  song,  was  flying  into  space,  soaring  light  and 
vibrant  and  delicately  free. 

The  grass  had  burned,  but  new  grass  would  come; 
the  green  joy  of  the  prairies  would  be  born  again; 
the  wild  flowers  would  bloom;  the  little  birds  would 
have  their  nests.  He  knew  not  why  it  should  be  so, 
but  a  freshness,  a  felicity,  a  beneficent  joy  had  en 
tered  into  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  cleansed 
by  fire,  as  if  withered  tangles  and  choking  growths 
had  all  been  burnt  away. 

Here  the  mystery  of  earth  and  wind  were  one  with 
the  mystery  of  the  stars,  and  he  himself  was  a  part  of 
the  vast  holiness,  a  part  of  the  wonder  and  the  glory, 
an  undefeated  force  as  virile  as  the  sap  in  charred 
stubble,  the  essence  unseen  but  still  marvellous  in 
the  power  and  the  poetry  of  promise. 

Agaze  at  the  crystal  throbbing  of  the  stars,  he  re 
peated  the  refrain  of  the  old  trail-song: 

"Wine  o1  the  windy  wine  o'  the  wind! 
Wine  o'  the  big  winds  blowing!" 


PART  VII 
DAWN 


CHAPTER  I 

7°y 

A  NOON,  a  man  on  a  black  horse,  with  rifle 
in   front  of  him,   came  racing   toward   the 
wagon-camp.     He    shouted    as    he    came. 
He  demanded  to  be  told,  for  God's  sake,  was  there 
a  preacher  in  this  outfit? 

Being  distressfully  tongue-tied,  the  poor  fellow 
lisped  like  a  girl;  yet  when  he  had  been  informed  that 
the  caravan  could  yield  him  no  member  of  the  clergy, 
his  lisping  grew  remarkably  loud,  and  vivid,  and  cap 
able.  For,  damn  it  all,  he  must  have  a  preacher. 
Needed  one  "the  wortht  way."  A  doctor,  too! 
Had  been  trying,  all  forenoon,  to  roust  out  a  doctor 
and  a  preacher. 

Once  the  importunate  stranger  had  dismounted, 
with  the  wagon  men  clustering  about  him,  he  felt 
himself  nudged  in  the  side  by  an  elbow.  One-Eyed 
Mike  cautioned  sedately,  with  a  hand  to  his  mouth: 

"  If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  we  hope  you'll  try  to 
keep  your  language  tamed  down  a  little,  on  account 
of  the  Bishop/'  With  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  he  indi 
cated  Matt,  the  hunchback,  who  was  hanging  a  bean- 
kettle  over  a  fire.  "Us  boys,"  Mike  went  on,  "al 
ways  put  a  double-locker  on  our  cussin'  when  he's 
around.  Strains  us  some  to  control  ourselves,  but 
nothin'  we  wouldn't  do  for  the  Bishop." 

245 


246  Wine  0'  the  Winds 

"Bithop?  What  ith  a  bithop?  Thome  kind  of 
preacher,  ain't  he?" 

"Some  kind?  Why,  next  to  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
he's  the  very  genteelest  kind  of  a  preacher  there  is. 
So  hard-working  and  earnest  with  his  preachin'  that 
he  gets  stunted  with  it,  and  humpbacked." 

Big  Andy  didn't  like  the  joke.  It  was  not  the 
thing,  not  hospitable;  so,  in  stern  rebuke,  he  mut 
tered. 

"Idiot!"  Some  folks,  he  said,  always  have  to  get 
smart  and  show  off.  Nonsense  often  worried  him; 
but  now,  especially,  he  was  not  in  the  humour  for  it, 
since  he  had  been  unable  to  get  away  from  the  plod 
ding  ox-train,  because  one  mule  of  the  powerful  team 
recently  substituted  for  his  two  span  of  yoke-mates 
had  sickened  from  eating  loco  weed. 

"We  have  no  priest  or  clergyman  with  us,"  the 
stalwart  plainsman  told  the  newcomer.  "A  doctor, 
yes;  but  no  preacher." 

"Too  bad,"  the  stranger  asserted.  "It  ith  for  a 
fack.  Because  a  man  died  on  us,  and  we  got  to  have 
thome  words  thaid  over  him,  and  prayers.  Got 
everything  fixed;  box  made,  grave  dug,  and  all. 
Want  to  do  ourthelves  proud  on  the  burial.  Us 
boys  took  a  vote  to  make  out  which  one  would  have 
to  read  a  piece  out  o'  the  Bible,  and  mebbe  peel  off 
a  prayer.  And  who  gets  'lected?  Me!  They 
choosed  me.  And  how  ith  it  goin'  to  thound?  It 
won't  thound  good.  I  know  it  won't.  It's  goin'  to 
thound  like  hell!" 

Blushing  and  grinning,  the  man  with  the  lisp  ex 
plained  that  he  belonged  over  at  Gov  Marvin's 
ranch;  that  he  had  been  sent  for  a  doctor,  but  still 


Joy  247 

hoped  to  get  a  preacher.  He  further  told  what  thing 
had  happened  to  the  man  who  died. 

"  Poor  lad,  he  got  drug  and  trompled.  Awful  mith- 
fortune.  Was  night-herdin'  in  the  bottomland,  and 
did  what  had  been  ordered:  hitched  himthelf  to  the 
bell-mule.  Went  to  thleep,  I  reckon.  In  the  night 
the  Injuns  jumped  the  herd.  He  got  drug  and  trom 
pled.  Yeth,  awful  mithfortune." 

The  stampeded  mules,  it  appeared,  did  not  belong 
to  the  ranch  but  to  an  immigrant  train.  As  for  the 
need  of  a  doctor,  one  case  was  that  of  a  man  gored  by 
a  buffalo.  "Bad,  mighty  bad,"  the  lisper  declared. 
"Tim's  leg  is  all  thwelled  up,  and  looking  green. 
Ought  to  come  off,  I  expect.  But  how  come  off? 
We  ain't  up  to  it,  us  lads  ain't." 

He  spoke  of  "Gov's  woman,"  the  ranchman's  wife, 
and  in  the  mention  of  her,  touched  his  hat.  She, 
he  thought,  could  turn  the  trick,  if  anybody  could. 
Yes,  for  she  was  that  kind  of  a  person;  could  do  any 
thing,  if  it  had  to  be  done. 

"Not  now,  though,"  he  explained.  "For  there's 
a  new  baby  to  be  born,  in  two  days,  maybe,  or  three." 

To  right  and  left,  as  he  talked,  the  man  had  been 
looking  into  the  brown  and  bewhiskered  faces  about 
him;  and  presently  he  inquired: 

"Which  man  of  you  ith  the  doctor?"  Seeing  the 
gaze  of  the  bystanders  turn  toward  the  wagon 
master,  the  stranger  asked  at  once:  "You?  Are 
you  the  doctor?" 

Harry  North,  for  the  moment,  did  not  answer. 
Worn,  thin-lipped,  and  shabby,  he  looked  away. 
When  he  did  reply  to  the  simple  question,  it  was 
slowly,  with  laboured  accuracy: 


248  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

"Someone  is  hurt.  A  child  is  to  be  born."  He 
moved  a  hand  across  his  eyes.  "Go  with  you? 
Why,  yes.  Must,  I  suppose,  if  the  people  of  this 
wagon-train  are  willing  I  should." 

He  had  little  doubt  of  their  consent;  and  yet  the 
visitor  had  no  sooner  been  taken  away  to  be  fed  and 
shown  the  hospitalities  of  the  camp  than  North  felt  a 
timorous  tugging  at  his  arm,  while  someone  earnestly 
cautioned: 

"Don't  do  it.     Don't  go  away  with  that  man." 

What  familiar  tone  was  this?  A  contralto  voice, 
quiet  and  low  and  richly  modulated,  and  so  confiden 
tially  near  that  North  felt  a  warm  breath  upon  his 
cheek. 

"Eh,  what's  that?"  Coming  out  of  his  detached 
mood,  he  saw  dark  eyes  looking  into  his,  while  again 
the  earnest  voice  importunately  urged: 

"You  mustn't  be  leaving  us.     You  shouldn't." 

A  startled  look,  and  then  an  astonished  smile 
brightened  the  gravity  of  his  face. 

"You,  Winnie?     It  is!     It's  really,  really  you." 

"Dangerous  country,"  she  was  saying.  "Women 
and  children  are  in  this  outfit.  Your  place  is  here." 

In  dubious  questioning  his  hand  went  out  and  took 
away  her  man's  slouch  hat.  He  looked  and  looked 
at  her,  and  in  wistful  reproach  shook  his  head. 

"A  boy!  You  dress  like  one,  you  look  like  a  boy. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  that  .  .  .  and  here, 
now,  at  last.  .  .  .  The  herd-boy.  You  stay 
with  Mrs.  Ross.  Eh,  don't  you?" 

"Please,"  she  enjoined,  as  a  reddening  glow 
warmed  through  the  tan  and  sunny  bronze  of  her 
cheeks.  "StoD  it!" 


Joy  249 

"But  to  cut  off  your  hair  like  this!"  he  went  on. 
"Oh,  Winnie,  how  could  you?  All  your  beautiful 
hair  cut  off!" 

She  tried  to  put  scorn  into  the  toss  of  her  head, 
the  scorn  of  one  who  is  far  past  all  thought  of  charm 
or  feminine  frivolity. 

"Last  night,"  she  was  saying,  "we  heard  wolves 
in  the  hills.  Real  wolves,  do  you  think?  Ask  Andy. 
He  knows  they  were  not  wolves.  Indian  signals — 
that's  what!  We're  watched.  It  won't  do  for  you, 
the  wagon-boss,  to  be  leaving  this  train." 

Harry  North  caught  her  by  her  wrists;  and  with  a 
grip  nervously  strong  and  even  painful,  he  held  to 
them  as  if  to  make  sure  of  her,  to  convince  himself 
that  her  presence  here  could  not  be  some  fantastic 
error  of  the  senses. 

"I  didn't  quite  know  it  was  you.  I  thought  so, 
but  there  was  no  certainty.  On  the  night  of  the 
fire,  the  someone  who  helped  strip  off  the  flaming 
wagon-sheet — you,  Winnie!  Wasn't  it?  And  you 
have  sung.  I  have  heard  you  singing  in  the  dark 
ness." 

The  girl's  head  had  shyly  drooped.  "Please, 
please!"  she  begged,  and  with  a  tone  more  imploring: 
"You  won't  be  leaving  with  that  man.  You  mustn't, 
Hal." 

"Why  elude  me?  Why,  Winnie,  have  you  kept 
away  so  long?  And  I  not  wanting  to  intrude! 
But  you  must  have  known,  surely,  how  I  would  want 
to  see  you.  You  did  know.  You  couldn't  help  know 
ing,  for  sometimes  I  have  sought  you,  I  have  called 
to  you,  I  was  sure  it  could  be  no  one  else  than  you. 
Sure?  No,  I  wasn't,  either;  I  wasn't  a  bit  sure." 


250  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

Suddenly  he  laughed,  his  voice  ringing  out  with 
light,  boyish,  gay-hearted  gleefulness. 

"Are  you  going  with  that  man?"  she  demanded. 
"If  you  do — but  you  shouldn't — if  you  do  go,  I'm 
going,  too.  A  good  thing  to  put  a  grain  sack  under 
your  saddle-blanket.  You  don't  do  that,  but  you 
ought  to.  Keeps  a  horse's  back  from  getting  sore." 

He  gave  no  heed.  His  mood  of  absurd  youthful- 
ness  and  vivacity  continued. 

"I  was  all  the  while  waiting  to  hear  you  sing.  In 
the  night  time  I  heard  you.  Old  Rollins'  song. 
Good  old  Rollins !  But  is  it  partly  Spanish?  'Wine- 
o'-the-Winds,'  eh?  A  queer,  odd,  simple,  nonsen 
sical  thing  to  be  so  heartening!  You  sang  it;  and 
was  it  for  me,  Winnie?  Was  it?" 

"To  ask  that,"  she  stammered,  "such  a  thing  to 
ask!"  Her  head  bowed  once  more,  and  her  clipped 
dark  hair  fell  forward  over  flushed  cheeks  like  a  pair 
of  black  wings. 

"It's  unbelievable,"  he  went  on.  "I  touch  you,  I 
hold  fast  to  you;  and  yet,  even  now.  .  .  ." 

"Let  go.  You  hurt!"  she  protested,  but  straight 
way  added:  "No,  don't  let  go.  I  don't  care.  I 
want  it  to  hurt.  .  .  .  And,  Hal,  are  you  glad? 
You're  not  sorry?  You  won't  be  cross  with  me?" 

All  at  once  she  tore  her  wrists  away  from  him,  and 
shook  all  over  with  a  strange  shuddering. 

"  I'm  a  fool,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  belong  here.  You 
like  me.  You  talk  kindly  to  me.  But  you  .  .  . 
it's  the  other  one  that  you.  .  .  .  Only  I  ... 
just  like  a  dog,  came  tagging  along." 

From  the  ground  she  caught  up  the  battered  hat 
which  North  had  let  fall;  and  as  she  snatched  it  from 


Joy  251 

the  earth  she  also  whipped  it  angrily  across  his  face. 
Then  she  ran  off,  blindly,  and  at  random.  But  she 
had  not  gone  far  when  she  stopped,  and  turned, 
and  called  with  choked  laboriousness: 

"Don't  forget!  A  grain  sack  under  the  saddle- 
blanket." 

At  the  circle  of  halted  wagons  she  scurried  between 
the  wheels,  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  II 

Revolt 

IT  WAS  a  windless  day,  an  afternoon  of  scorching 
heat,  when  the  horseback  journey  of  the  two  men 
began  at  a  leisurely  pace;  for  no  matter  how  ur 
gent  the  need  of  haste,  the  animals  must  not  be  hur 
ried  too  much  at  the  start.     Only  when  they  had 
warmed  to  their  work,  breathing  evenly  and  regularly, 
would  the  time  be  right  for  accelerated  galloping. 

A  short  distance  they  had  gone  at  a  mild  and  easy 
canter,  when  someone  on  a  roan-coloured  horse  over 
took  them  and  went  spurting  past.  Gun-belted,  rifle 
in  hand,  this  rider  used  a  blanket  and  surcingle  for 
a  saddle,  and  merely  a  noosed  rope,  a  hackamore, 
for  a  bridle;  and  after  fleetly  dashing  ahead,  the  ani 
mal  ranged  a  little  to  the  right,  into  an  expanse  of 
rough  and  broken  country.  The  eyes  of  the  men, 
as  they  watched,  began  to  ache  from  the  hard  white 
glare  of  the  sun. 

The  silence  vibrated  with  heat.  One  somehow 
gained  the  impression  that  the  sand  hills,  cleft  and 
torn  by  batterings  of  wind,  were  all  faintly  a-throb, 
as  if  they  might  be  ready  to  flow  like  melted  wax. 

By  and  by  the  advance  rider,  upon  ascending  an 
elevation  out-topping  the  others,  dismounted  and 
stealthily  crept  along,  going  higher  and  higher,  to 
peer  cautiously  over  the  crest. 

252 


Revolt  253 

"Injuns  around  real  spry,  don't  he?"  the  ranch 
hand  observed;  and  even  when  put  right  as  to  the 
gender  of  the  pronoun  he  had  used,  he  presently 
added,  still  holding  to  his  own  idea  of  sex:  "Thee 
him  come!  Thits  his  horse  good;  a  pretty  rider." 

Speedily  drawing  near,  guiding  solely  by  knee- 
pressure  and  bodily  swing,  the  energetic  saddle- 
horse  checked  with  singular  abruptness  his  rapid 
pace.  The  men  were  asked  at  once  whether  either  of 
them  had  a  pair  of  field  glasses.  That  they  weren't 
so  equipped  didn't  matter,  Winifred  announced, 
because  she  could  see  far;  she  could  read  cattle  brands 
at  greater  distances,  her  father  used  to  say,  than 
anybody  that  ever  worked  on  the  range. 

"Yes,"  she  added,  "good  eyes." 

"Very!"  said  North;  at  which  she  pouted  and 
looked  aside  and  told  him  please  not  to  be  a  silly, 
because  he  knew  well  enough  that  what  she  meant 
was  only  that  her  eyesight  could  be  trusted  for  a  good 
look  around.  But  glasses,  all  the  same,  do  sometimes 
come  in  handy.  She  wanted  to  make  out  whether 
bright  colours  on  a  pony,  among  wild  horses  grazing 
on  the  mesa  over  yonder,  were  stripes  newly  painted 
or  whether  they  had  faded  with  much  weathering. 

"You  don't  listen,"  she  suddenly  protested. 

"You  look,  but  you I  can't  bother  with 

dresses.  I  would  but  I And  if  you  look,  it 

makes  me I  feel  ashamed." 

Her  face  had  been  averted,  and  a  little  futile  move 
ment  of  her  hand  gave  token  of  a  modest  longing  to 
smooth  down  some  skirted  drapery  over  trousered 
knee  and  boot-leg. 

"Paint,"  she  went  on,  with  hurried  speech,  "means 


254  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

something  in  Indian  religion.  Means  a  lot:  blue  for 
the  holy  sky,  green  for  the  holy  earth,  red  for  the  holy 
sap  of  life.  Andy  says  so.  He  says  the  Cheyenne  is 
careful  to  wash  off  the  paint  from  his  war  pony 
after  the  fighting  is  done." 

She  did  not  have  to  speak  more  than  this  to  make 
the  questionings  of  her  mind  clearly  understood. 
Why  had  not  the  sacred  colours  been  reverentially 
effaced?  Had  the  Indian  rider  been  killed,  leaving 
his  mount  to  stray  away  into  that  wild  herd?  And 
if  the  paint  had  still  an  unfaded  look,  wouldn't  that 
mean  that  the  fight  had  been  a  recent  fight,  and  at  a 
place  not  far  distant? 

All  at  once  the  girl  turned  upon  North's  companion 
with  an  accusation  impatiently  scornful: 

"You  come  for  a  doctor.  You  don't  act  square, 
you  don't  tell  him  of  stage  stations  being  burnt. 
Why  didnt  you  tell  him?  Thought  he  wouldn't  go 
with  you  if  you  told.  Is  that  it,  or  not?" 

The  ranch  messenger  blinked  owlishly,  not  know 
ing  what  to  say;  and  she  went  on,  with  a  bit  of  laugh 
ter:  "Ha,  as  if  he  wouldn't  go!  But  he  would.  He's 
that  kind." 

Harry  North  glanced  uncomfortably  at  the  man, 
with  a  look  which  seemed  to  say:  "They  go  on  like 
this;  they  talk,  women  do." 

Winifred  added  with  ironic  unction: 

"A  great  wonder  he'd  let  you  go  with  him.  You 
might  get  sunstruck.  Once,  so  I've  been  told,  he  got 
a  lot  of  bad  frost  bites  because  he  didn't  bother  with 
a  guide  when  a  blizzard  was  coming  on." 

Half-malicious  glances  kept  darting  from  her  dark 
eyes,  glances  eagerly  sly  to  catch  any  possible  change 


Revolt  255 

in  North's  inscrutable  face.  And  that  he  should 
retain  such  a  hold  upon  his  non-committal  reserve 
must  have  furthered  in  Winifred  a  restless  and  un 
happy  desire  to  see  him  wince. 

"Say,"  she  suddenly  blurted  out,  and  laid  a 
brusque  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  man  from  Marvin's 
ranch,  "maybe,  at  some  time,  you've  owned  a  dog. 
Have  you?  Ran  after  you  when  he  wasn't  wanted. 
A  nuisance,  eh?  Oh,  a  dog  like  that — a  dog!  The 
master  don't  even  have  to  whistle  for  him,  but  here 
he  comes,  skipping  and  jumping  and  wagging.  He 
nearly  dies  of  happiness  if  only  he  gets  his  head 
patted.  Disgusting,  so  it  is;  it's  disgusting!" 

The  bewildered  fellow  squinted  and  squinted. 
He  had  the  confused  expression  of  a  person  who 
wanted  to  ask:  "What  in  the  world  could  possess 
abody  to  make  abody  go  on  in  such  a  queer  fash 
ion?"  When  he  had  confessed  an  inability  to  make 
out  what  she  was  "getting  at,"  Harry  North  left  him 
with  the  riddle  by  saying: 

"You'll  excuse  us,  won't  you,  if  we  ride  a  little  to 
one  side  for  a  bit  of  talk  ? "  At  which  the  girl  declared, 
with  anger  and  softness  struggling  in  her  voice: 

"No,  Hal  North,  you  can't  come  that.  You 
can't  send  me  back.  I  won't  hear  of  it." 

Even  after  they  had  ridden  some  hundred  paces  to 
the  right  it  seemed  for  a  long  while  as  though 
North's  hope  of  a  private  word  with  Winnie  was  to  be 
defeated;  for  she  did  nothing  but  ride  beside  him  in 
taciturn  perversity.  Neither  of  the  two  seemed  will 
ing  to  say  anything.  The  girl  held  her  face  turned 
away,  and  pretended  not  to  notice  how  his  gaze 
continuously  rested  upon  her.  Although  she  may 


256  Wine  o   the  Winds 

have  avowed  within  herself  not  to  be  the  first  to 
speak,  it  was  she  who  really  did  speak  first. 

"Just  like  a  dog!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  it  dis 
gusts  me,  so  it  does.  Why  not  go  away,  and  never 
see  you  any  more?  Why  don't  I?  I  ought  to. 
That's  just  it.  And — of  course — I  really  did  go 
away.  Never  to  come  back,  I  thought.  Yes — but 
— and  if  I  did  come  back,  what  was  it  for?  Only  to 
tease  and  torment  you.  That's  it;  for  nothing  else!" 

North  looked  at  the  smooth  curve  of  her  cheek, 
richly  browned  by  the  sun;  and  after  a  long  pause  he 
began  speaking  to  her  with  a  grave  gentleness  which 
she  did  not  like. 

"No,  Winnie,  you  couldn't  be  spiteful.  If  youVe 
tantalized  anybody,  perhaps  it's  yourself  you've 
tantalized  most  of  all." 

"I  have;  that's  so.  I've  tormented  myself.  I've 
thought  of  you,  I've  sung  my  songs.  Foolish  little 
songs!  And  what  for?  All  for  nothing.  If  you 
heard,  maybe  you  didn't  want  to  hear.  Or  did  you 

want  to — a  little ?  Say  you  did.  Please  say  so. 

Make  it  a  lie,  if  you  must,  but  say  so." 

"You  know,  surely,  that  I Your  guitar  was 

still  sounding  the  night  I  tried  to  find  you." 

"  You  made  a  rush;  yes,  you  did.  Of  course.  But 
what  for?  Tve  made  him  cross,'  I  thought.  He 
only  wants  to  catch  me  and  scold  me." 

"Scold?     Do  I  scold?" 

"You  do.  You're  getting  ready  to  do  it  right 
now.  You  want  to  send  me  back." 

"And  if  I  don't?"  He  paused,  and  sighed,  and 
raised  her  face  by  gently  pressing  his  hand  under  her 
chin. 


Revolt  257 

"To  have  you  with  me,"  North  conceded,  "would 
be  pleasant;  perhaps  useful,  too.  But,  Winnie, 
there's  something  else  to  be  considered." 

The  last  of  this  he  had  not  finished  when  the  girl 
suddenly  stopped  her  ears  with  her  fingers,  and 
impishly  smiled.  "Talk  away,"  she  told  him, 
when  his  lips  no  longer  moved,  "talk,  be  reason 
able,  lay  down  the  law  as  much  as  you  like.  For 
you  see  how  deaf  I  am.  Awfully  deaf.  I  don't 
hear  you." 

"You  may  not  hear,"  he  answered,  "but  you 
understand.  You  know  perfectly  who  ought  to  be 
staying  with  the  wagons,  now  that  I  am  called  away. 
It's  not  that  I  find  fault  with  the  assistant  wagon 
master.  A  good  man,  Doug  Davis;  I  don't  criti 
cise  him.  He  is  popular,  he  has  pluck,  he  means 
well;  but  I  can't  help  feeling  uneasy  about  his 
contempt  for  danger,  his  over-confidence." 

"There  you  go ! "  Winifred  protested.  " I  see  what 
you're  coming  at.  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  But  you 
can't  talk  me  into  going  back.  Andy's  there.  I 
don't  need  to  go  back." 

"Oh,  yes — Andy!  But  if  his  locoed  mule  doesn't 
get  well,  he'll  be  getting  another  mule,  and  then, 
good-bye  to  Andy.  He's  so  confoundedly  impatient! 
And  even  if  he  were  to  stay,  I  know  a  certain  girl, 
quick-minded  and  swift  to  act,  that  I'd  sooner  trust 
in  an  emergency  than  any  man." 

"Oo,  hear  that!"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "It's  nice. 
Say  some  more.  It  does  make  me  feel  so  awfully 
smart.  Only  I  see  what  it's  for:  it's  to  brag  me  into 
doing  what  I  won't  do." 

Laughter  broke  the  spell  of  seriousness4  North 


258  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

couldn't  help  being  amused  at  her  droll  shrewdness. 
But  presently  he  said: 

"There  are  the  immigrant  children  to  be  thought 
about.  You  will  think  of  them,  Winnie;  you  can't 
help  it,  because  of  the  great  fondness  you  have  for 
little  people." 

"Shucks!"  she  exclaimed.  Resentment  had  come 
into  her  eyes,  her  lips  pouted,  she  declared  wistfully 
and  angrily:  "If  you're  not  just  too  mean  and  hate 
ful!  You  impose  on  a  body.  A  taskmaster,  a 
tyrant." 

The  hand  he  laid  persuasively  upon  her  shoulder 
felt  a  very  impatient  shrug. 

"It's  not  my  outfit,"  she  declared.  "It's  nothing 
to  me.  Why  should  a  girl  bother  herself  about  any 
body's  bull-train?  Has  plenty  of  men,  hasn't  it?" 

"Winnie,  Winnie!"  he  murmured. 

"No,  Hal  North,  I  won't.  You  needn't  ask. 
You're  only  making  excuses.  And  do  stop  the  beg 
ging  look  you  have.  I  hate  that  look There! 

that's  better.  Smile,  then;  smile  away.  But  that's 
no  good,  either,  to  get  rid  of  me.  I  shan't  go  back. 
I  shan't!" 

She  might  say  so,  but  she  did  not  believe  it.  The 
winking  of  her  dark  eyes,  the  twitching  of  her  red 
lips,  and  the  wistful  drooping  of  her  head  had  made 
her  decision  plain  to  him,  even  before  she  announced, 
very  simply  and  humbly,  with  a  dry  swallowing  in  her 
throat: 

"So  you  are  going  on  without  me?" 

After  a  time  she  was  adding,  out  of  the  strange 
humbleness  that  had  come  upon  her: 

"Who  knows  when  we  shall  see  each  other  again? 


Revolt  259 

Days  go  by,  weeks  go  by,  and  I  am  waiting  all  that 
time  to  find  out  whether  you  would  want  to  see  me 

again.  And  here,  now,  to-day — at  last But 

it's  only  to  separate." 

"Why,  to-morrow  I  may  be  back,"  he  imcon- 
vincingly  assured  her.  "Yes,  to-morrow,  or  next 
day;  in  three  or  four  days  at  the  most." 

She  made  no  answer  to  that,  but  beseechingly 
added:  "A  little  ways  further  I'm  going;  to  that 

hill,  yonder.  And  then "  She  covered  her  eyes 

with  her  hand.  North  tried  not  to  look;  he  meant 
to  keep  his  face  turned  resolutely  aside.  But  he 
could  not  help  saying,  very  gently: 

"What,  Winnie,  what!     Are  you  crying?" 

She  shook  all  over.  She  began  to  laugh.  "No^ 
devil  take  it,  I  don't  cry.  I  won't!" 

Abruptly,  without  any  further  word  of  farewell, 
she  whirled  about,  waved  her  hat,  struck  her  horse 
with  it,  and  went  frantically  galloping  away,  back 
toward  the  wagon-train. 


CHAPTER  III 

Playful  Ferocity 

THEY  rode  all  night.     During  periods  when 
first  one  slept  and  then  the  other,  with  hands 
on  saddle-horn  and  head  drooping,  the  dark 
hat   of    the   sleeper   would   swing  in   abrupt   semi 
circles,  while  the  head  of  the  watchful  rider  performed 
an  up-and-down  movement,  much  less  pronounced. 

On  coming  awake  each  asked  in  turn,  unfailingly, 
"Any  more?" — a  question  having  reference  to  yellow 
flares  glimpsed  at  great  distances,  among  the  hills, 
intermittently  warming  and  cooling,  like  the  glow  of  a 
cigar  in  the  darkness  of  a  vast  room.  Signals,  of 
course;  Indian  signals!  But  who  could  say  what 
sinister  commands  were  thus  being  flashed  into  the 
far  spaces  of  the  night? 

Odd  it  seemed  to  Harry  North  that  he  and  his 
companion,  amid  indications  so  formidable,  could 
find  it  possible  to  sleep.  A  man,  to  be  sure,  gets 
used  to  danger;  and  if  multiplied  perils  are  continued 
long  enough,  he  comes  to  feel  that  he  is  immune; 
that  luck  is  with  him;  that,  whatever  befalls,  he  is 
surely  to  escape  disaster.  Begotten  in  youth  es 
pecially,  this  egotistical  confidence  is  much  the  same 
sort  of  naive  and  irrational  faith  which  the  red  man 
acquires  through  his  trust  in  a  personal  fetish,  a  little 
bag  of  sacred  charms  worn  upon  his  person. 

260 


Playful  Ferocity  261 

Neither  of  the  riders,  for  all  that,  took  any  pains 
to  disguise  the  relief  he  felt  in  the  coming  of  the  day, 
now  dawning  clear  and  temporarily  cool.  Larks 
began  to  call.  A  sandhill  crane,  with  long  and  slant 
ing  legs,  flew  low,  with  powerful  wing  strokes,  toward 
a  green  islet  of  the  Platte. 

With  the  rising  of  the  sun  tawny  mounds  like  heaps 
of  sand  began  to  rise  into  view,  all  warmly  yellow  on 
one  side.  Haystacks,  Harry  North  knew  them  to  be; 
and  from  the  bottomland,  along  the  river,  a  metallic 
whirr,  not  unlike  the  noise  of  a  harvest  fly,  began  to 
grind. 

"The  mower — hear  it?  Thound  carries  a  long 
way,  don't  it?"  The  doctor's  companion  seemed 
delighted  with  the  mechanical  buzzing  through  space, 
as  if  a  clock  were  being  rapidly  wound.  "A  fine 
meadow,"  he  announced.  "No  better  wild  hay 
anywhere." 

He  smiled,  he  went  on  listening.  Then,  all  at 
once,  his  smile  seemed  to  mummify.  "Queer!"  he 
exclaimed.  "Awful  queer  the  way  it  thounds!" 
He  stopped  his  horse,  the  better  to  give  ear  to  the 
hay-making  activities;  and  having  listened,  he  began 
to  babble  in  a  preoccupied  fashion,  in  an  effort  to 
reach  some  reasonable  conclusion  regarding  the 
thing  called  queer.  "Jane  and  Jake,"  he  muttered, 
"a  good  mule  team,  all  right;  fine  workers.  I  never 
drove  no  better;  but,  all  the  thame,  I  never  did  hear 
the  mower  hum  like  that." 

"Smoke!"  North  suddenly  cried  out.  "Hay's 
afire." 

"Injuns!"  the  other  gasped.  "Thure  as  Lord 
God  Almighty!" 


262  Wine  o    the  Winds 

As  by  a  common  impulse  the  travellers  incon 
tinently  snatched  off  their  hats  and  made  a  point  of 
clamping  their  knees  tight  to  their  mounts;  for  even 
from  a  great  distance  white  horsemen  are  to  be 
identified  by  covered  heads  and  swinging  legs.  It 
must  therefore  be  the  part  of  prudence  to  ride  a& 
Indians  do,  in  order  to  delay  as  long  as  possible  the 
attack  likely  to  come. 

North  let  out  a  deep  breath.  He  felt  better.  No 
more  suspense,  no  more  grisly  dread  of  uncertainties. 
He  said  to  himself:  "So,  then,  it's  come."  Intellect 
ually  he  realized  that  deadly  peril  lay  ahead,  but 
emotionally  he  felt  a  buoyant  sense  of  relief.  All 
nervous  apprehension  dropped  away.  After  hours  of 
tense  watchfulness  and  strain,  here,  finally,  was 
no  longer  the  treacherous  unknown,  but  a  definite 
situation,  something  to  be  seen  and  understood. 

He  further  realized  that  desperate  alternatives  had 
now  to  be  considered.  Very  logically  he  told  himself 
that  one  could  always  turn  tail  and  run  for  it.  Yes, 
but  with  what  small  chance  of  success,  being  mounted 
on  a  horse  far  spent  with  night-long  exertions! 

Everything  considered,  wouldn't  the  better  risk 
be  that  of  going  straight  on,  in  the  hope  of  reaching 
the  stockaded  enclosure  of  the  ranch?  A  tale  of  a 
stage  passenger  who  eluded  Indian  assailants  by 
getting  below  the  river  bank  and  there  lying  sub 
merged  for  a  day  and  a  night  came  into  mind, 
proposing  still  another  possibility  of  escape. 

Briefly,  one  after  another,  these  expedients  were 
named;  but  the  movement  forward,  never  slackening 
for  an  instant,  gave  token  that  the  risks  of  a  fighting 
chance  were  the  risks  to  be  accepted.  Tacitly  com- 


Playful  Ferocity  263 

mitted  to  this  course,  both  men  watched  the  in 
cendiaries,  those  barbaric  destroyers  on  ponies  so  far 
distant  as  to  appear  like  thumb-high  pygmies  play 
fully  scurrying  about  on  spotted  kittens. 

North's  companion,  being  no  longer  diffident  as 
people  with  defective  speech  are  likely  to  be,  had 
begun  to  show  concern  in  regard  to  the  burning  hay. 
Too  bad,  wasn't  it?  A  great  pity!  The  "old  man," 
as  he  called  his  employer,  supplied  a  heavy  tonnage 
of  forage  to  Fort  McPherson,  and  had  almost  finished 
putting  up  enough  hay  to  fill  his  government  con 
tracts.  Those  flaming  stacks,  every  one  of  them, 
were  honest  in  substance,  with  no  brushwood  or  wil 
low  poles  under  them,  fraudulently  to  swell  their  size. 

To  hear  the  lisping  fellow  go  on  about  the  tricks  of 
cheating  contractors,  and  to  hear  him  express  a  poor 
opinion  of  commissary  officers  who  allow  the  govern 
ment  to  be  swindled,  one  might  suppose  that  he 
could  be  taking  no  thought  of  the  crisis,  the  really 
desperate  crisis  which  must  presently  be  met.  How 
soon  that  ordeal  might  assert  itself  could  not  be 
guessed;  but  the  more  the  men  furthered  their  ad 
vance  toward  the  ranch,  the  plainer  they  could  see 
how  the  spectacle  in  the  clipped  lands,  sere  with 
stubble,  had  assumed  the  startling  aspects  of  a  howl 
ing  and  delirious  sport. 

Feather-crested  riders  on  swift  ponies  went  dart 
ing  about.  Several  of  them,  with  brown  bodies 
oiled  and  a-glisten,  kept  bending  far  over,  rising  and 
falling  with  the  effort  of  cudgelling  a  team  of  runaway 
mules.  Bows  and  lances  belaboured  the  beasts, 
and  in  terror  they  hurled  along,  dragging  the  mowing 
machine  which  bumped  ponderously  over  rough 


264  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

places,  always  frantically  whirring.  A  fine  play 
thing,  this  wheeled  contrivance!  It  could  purr 
louder  than  a  mountain  lion !  Two  revolver  holsters 
a-dangle  from  the  vacant  seat  crazily  thumped  and 
knocked  about,  now  scuffing  together,  now  jouncing 
and  jerking  and  fantastically  flapping. 

Like  youngsters  in  an  orgy  of  destructiveness,  as 
when  boys  prankishly  stone  the  window  lights  out  of  a 
vacant  house,  the  Indians  gave  themselves  up  to  this 
mad  excitement;  they  yelled  and  laughed,  they 
jubilantly  whooped. 

Metal  gnashed.  Slack  chains  clanked.  Loaded 
wagons,  being  fanned  by  the  wind  of  motion,  blazed 
with  a  fiercer  fire  than  the  stacks;  and  bullock  teams, 
heavily  galloping,  seemed  more  affrighted  by  crackl 
ing  flames  than  by  the  screeching  clamour  of  naked 
bowmen  and  lancers.  A  tumbling  trail  of  blue-gray 
smoke  streamed  in  the  wake  of  each  jouncing  hay 
rack.  North  watched  the  fumings.  With  eye 
sight  grown  inordinately  sharp,  he  could  see  that 
whenever  the  panic-stricken  oxen  fell  off"  in  speed, 
they  had  arrows  shot  into  them  to  hasten  their  pace. 

"Eh,  a  pleasant  little  pastime!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
felt  below  his  ears  the  ache  which  comes  from  the 
tension  of  set  jaws. 

His  companion  answered: 

"Just  you  wait!"  implying  that  those  gambols  in 
the  hayfield  were  as  yet  but  feeble  little  tricks, 
inoffensively  moderate. 

Once  more  the  man  grew  talkative,  and  this  time  it 
was  with  rancorous  scoldings.  They  wanted  a  doc 
tor,  he  had  gone  for  a  doctor,  he  had  fetched  a  doctor. 
All  right.  And  now  what?  He  would  be  damned  if 


Playful  Ferocity  265 

he  could  see  why  they  weren't  on  watch.  What 
ailed  them?  Why  didn't  they  do  something? 

The  log-built  house  stood  plainly  revealed  in  the 
distance,  with  two  windows  agleam  in  the  sun  like 
sheets  of  new  tin. 

"Do?"  North  questioned.  "What  in  the  world 
can  you  expect  them  to  do?" 

"Throwing  off  on  us!"  the  other  peevishly  com, 
plained,  and  went  on  muttering  contemptuously. 
He  couldn't  see  what  had  got  into  them.  "Act  as  if 
they  couldn't  thee  the  fix  we're  in,"  he  venomously 
asserted.  He  did  more  than  complain  of  the  ranch 
folk;  he  expressed  a  passionate  desire  to  punch  the 
heads  of  the  whole  decayed  outfit,  "inclusive  and 
complete."  Incidentally  he  hoped  to  God  that  they 
would  "all  get  their  dirty  scalps  histed." 

This  embittered  earnestness,  combined  with  lisp 
ing  and  stammering,  had  grown  to  be  outrageously 
absurd — but  not  funny,  not  a  bit  more  comical  than 
the  ravings  of  a  maniac.  One  even  suspected  that 
the  fellow  might  have  gone  out  of  his  head. 

But  he  hadn't.  His  faculties  remained  alert,  as 
could  be  seen  by  the  way  he  loosened  his  six-shooter 
in  its  holster,  by  the  care  with  which  he  examined  the 
breech  of  his  loaded  rifle.  If,  in  truth,  something 
might  and  should  be  done  by  his  friends  in  this 
emergency,  he  had  grown  far  too  anxious  and  too 
angry  to  explain  what  it  was. 

"There,  thee  that!"  he  exclaimed,  as  a  scurry  of 
ponies  came  swooping  out  of  the  hayland.  "An 
Injun  trick:  let  us  think  we're  O.  K. — then  jump  us! 
Here  they  come,  the  varmin !  To  cut  us  off",  just  as  I 
knowed  they  would." 


266  Wine  o    the  Winds 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  the  intent.  In  the 
ruck  of  wild  riding  some  score  of  bronze  torsos 
glistened;  they  shone  with  a  lustre  as  if  the  lithe 
bodies  had  been  modelled  in  chocolate  about  to  melt. 
From  dark  flesh  gleamed  vivid  notes  of  colour: 
scarlet,  orange,  virulent  green,  in  stripes,  in  bars,  in 
fantastic  ornamentations.  Paint  glowed,  too,  upon 
the  ponies,  whose  manes  and  tails  held  fluttering 
feather-tufts,  as  did  each  warrior's  gayly  decorated 
shield.  Here  and  there  a  trailing  headdress,  eagle- 
plumed,  billowed  aslant  like  a  sumptuous  wing  about 
to  detach  itself  and  soar  away. 

"Looks  dirty,"  muttered  the  man  from  the  ranch, 
even  though,  in  a  visual  sense,  everything  appeared 
amazingly  clean.  Lance  points  glittered,  gun  bar 
rels  flashed;  earring,  bracelet,  arm  band,  every  bit  of 
metal  glinted  with  harsh  sparkles. 

Acutely  as  North  realized  the  peril  of  this  onrush, 
it  exerted  upon  him  a  ghastly  fascination — a  mood 
savage  and  fanatical,  a  lunatic  impulse  to  let  out  a 
screech  of  defiant  yells.  But  with  the  nearer  ap 
proach  of  those  ponies  madly  galloping,  he  choked 
suddenly,  as  from  strangling  winds. 

Fear?  Was  it  fear?  "This  must  be  fright,"  he 
told  himself. 

It  was,  certainly;  fright,  and  something  else!  It 
was  the  thrill,  the  exhilaration,  the  unreasoning  and 
unreasonable  faith  of  youth  and  of  blood,  the  an 
cestral  and  aggressive  power  of  our  Aryan  race 
which  goes  spreading  itself  over  the  continents 
of  the  world,  seizing  the  land,  conquering,  dominat 
ing,  imposing  its  unyielding  will  upon  all  peoples 
everywhere. 


Playful  Ferocity  267 

"We'll  make  it,"  he  said.  "Have  to.  Can't 
afford  to  be  headed  off." 

The  other  man  gave  no  heed.  Full  of  dreadful 
oaths  and  vehemence,  he  did  nothing  but  curse. 

North  talked.     He  had  to  talk.     He  was  saying: 

"Malcolm  would  do  it.  Get  through,  somehow. 
Partner  of  mine,  old  Doctor  Malcolm.  Went  through 
the  river  once.  Flood  time,  ice  running,  bridge  swept 
away;  but  he,  you  understand " 

When  North  realized  that  he  was  foolishly  repeat 
ing  over  and  over,  "Must  get  through";  "have  to"; 
"surely  must,"  he  stopped  talking,  and  laughed 
queerly. 

Still  the  ranch  hand  continued  to  swear,  but  no 
longer  in  the  same  spirit  as  before.  The  mood  of  his 
profanity  had  changed.  Now  it  was  not  with  a 
grumbling  of  surly  irritation  that  he  swore,  but 
volubly,  with  elation,  with  pride,  with  amazing  good 
will.  His  great  paw  smote  the  sweat-drenched  neck 
of  his  horse.  He  spluttered;  he  wanted  it  understood 
that  they  had  "come  their  little  trick."  They  had; 
they'd  "done  it";  they'd  "come  it  at  last!"  With 
an  ecstatic  howl  he  thrashed  his  hat  up  and  down, 
absurdly,  jubilating. 

"Yeth,"  he  specified,  slanting  forward  in  his 
saddle,  "they've  come  it,  they've  got  a  wiggle  on, 
they've  rolled  out  the  dummy!" 

Timbered  gates,  over  yonder  at  the  corral  of  the 
ranch,  had  been  struck  open.  Something  trundled 
forth — something  mounted  between  a  stout  pair  of 
wheels;  an  object  dark,  clumsy,  awkward  to  handle. 

"Dummy?"  North  exclaimed,  still  in  a  muddle  as 
to  the  significance  of  that  grotesque  cart  which  three 


a68  Wine  o   the  Winds 

individuals  briskly  wheeled  into  position,  and  aimed 
like  a  squad  of  artillerymen. 

All  at  once  there  had  come  a  fluctuating  uncer 
tainty  among  the  ponies  streaking  out  of  the  hay- 
field,  single  file.  The  leader  hesitated,  swerved  to  the 
east,  and  all  the  others  veered  with  him  at  the  same 
time,  in  the  same  direction.  It  could  be  seen  that 
they  deemed  it  imprudent  to  take  chances  with  this 
snub-nosed,  short-barrelled  piece  of  ordnance,  so  un 
expectedly  shoved  into  place  and  sighted  at  them. 

Chuckling  and  gasping  delightedly,  the  ranch  hand 
declared: 

"A  churn,  only  a  churn!  Gov's  woman  had  the 
idea.  A  churn  painted  black.  I  hustled  the  wheels. 
I  helped  rig  up  the  damn  fool  thing.  She  got  the 

notion  for  it,  and  we It's  a  dummy."  He 

repeated  that  it  was  a  dummy,  "a  regular  damn  fool 
dummy."  But  it  worked.  "Hey,  don't  it?"  he 
asked.  ' '  Don' t  i  t  work  good  ? ' ' 

For  the  present,  at  least,  the  galloping  ponies, 
always  in  line,  going  backward  and  forward  upon  the 
prairie  in  curves  like  those  of  the  letter  S,  continued 
their  fleet  manoeuvring  at  a  distance  far  removed. 
It  was  caution  learned,  no  doubt,  from  previous 
experience  with  shrapnel  violence  hurled  from  the 
kind  of  "big  gun  which  coughs  twice,  with  two 
thunders." 

"It  does  work,"  North  agreed.  "It  should  let  us 
through;  and  will — if  nothing  happens." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Beleaguered 

WITHIN  the  ranch  house  cartridge  boxes 
had  been  broken  open  and  ammunition 
made  ready.  Everything  which  might 
hamper  the  movements  of  the  defenders  had  been 
cleared  away.  All  such  work  had  been  accomplished 
without  any  fumbling  nervousness;  for  what  with 
the  strain  and  violence  already  experienced  in  having 
fought  their  way  to  shelter,  the  further  fighting  of 
the  men  would  be  much  the  same  as  a  commonplace 
labour.  Bits  of  oiled  rag  littering  the  floor  indicated 
that  rifles  and  six-shooters  had  been  newly  cleaned 
to  meet  the  demands  of  another  ordeal. 

Peering  through  loop-holes,  two  men  watched  a 
squad  of  Indians  still  busy  with  the  torch  engaged 
in  firing  the  last  of  the  stacks  in  the  bottomland. 
The  house  jarred  meanwhile  with  a  rigorous  thump 
ing;  for  a  woman  with  a  hatchet  had  begun  to  knock 
at  the  chinking  between  the  cedar  logs,  that  new 
places  for  peeping  out  might  be  opened.  As  North, 
with  saddle-bags  across  his  arm,  strode  briskly  in, 
followed  by  his  companion,  she  turned  her  head  to 
speak  over  her  shoulder  in  a  manner  apparently 
unperturbed: 

"Be  careful,  boys,  not  to  get  into  that."  A  move 
ment  of  her  elbow  indicated  a  great  mound  of  cor- 

269 


270  Wine  o"  the  Winds 

pulent  bed  ticks  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  above 
which  a  snowflake  flurry  of  little  feathers  was  still 
idly  floating  and  dancing,  puffed  about  by  some  stray 
whiff  of  breeze.  "The  children,"  she  explained, 
"are  in  there.  And  they  don't  like  it;  they  fuss, 
it's  so  hot  and  stuffy." 

"Here  he  ith,"  North's  companion  announced. 
"The  doctor,  I've  fetched  the  doctor."  He  seemed 
hurt  that  people  were  taking  so  little  notice  of  his 
accomplishment.  Even  the  woman  seemed  less 
concerned  with  what  he  had  done  than  with  what 
had  happened  to  her  churn. 

"Too  bad  about  that.  Stood  in  the  sun  too  long; 
it  shrunk.  The  boys  jolted  it.  Staves  all  fallen  in." 

It  really  was  too  bad;  for  such  fighters  as  the  Sioux 
and  the  Cheyenne  are  not  the  sort  long  to  be  de 
ceived  by  a  piece  of  artillery  whose  parts  have  chosen 
a  poor  moment  to  collapse. 

What  seemed  very  strange  to  North  was  that  the 
woman  should  concern  herself  so  little  with  the  fact 
that  the  big-gun  deception  could  no  longer  be  kept 
up.  It  was  rather  the  incident  of  her  butter-making 
implement  going  distressfully  to  pieces  that  trou 
bled  her.  She  even  declared  with  head-shaking 
regret: 

"Hard  to  get,  churns  are.     Awful  hard  to  get!" 

Doubtless  the  newcomers,  having  reached  here 
safely  as  the  result  of  the  clever  trick,  might  have 
received  a  more  cordial  welcome  in  circumstances 
less  menacing.  But  this,  surely,  was  no  time  to 
hold  a  reception.  The  effect  of  the  cheat  prac 
tised  upon  them  was  to  make  the  Indians  grow  more 
audacious  then  common;  for  after  their  period  of 


Beleaguered  271 

excessive  caution  they  now  appeared  doubly  anxious 
to  attest  their  courage  and  boldness. 

The  tongue-tied  man,  for  all  that,  felt  that  the 
homage  of  a  little  notice  was  his  due;  and  so,  with 
unwarrantable  fervour,  he  proclaimed  most  ag 
gressively: 

"Here  he  ith,  here  he  ith — a  doctor!  You  wanted 
him,  and  here  he  ith." 

When  one  has  been  pluming  himself  on  his  ac 
complishment,  how  can  he  help  but  feel  abused  over 
such  seeming  indifference  of  comrades?  What  kind 
of  an  outfit  was  this,  anyhow,  to  take  everything  for 
granted? 

"The  doctor — oh,  yes!"  the  woman  belatedly  con 
ceded,  and  even  added  with  mothering  indulgence: 
"That's  good,  Nat.  First  rate."  She  likewise 
contrived  to  give  him  a  gratulatory  smile  over  her 
shoulder,  and  to  recognize  North's  presence  with  a 
brisk  little  bow.  "Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "but  I'm 
watching  for  Hawk  Barnes.  Sent  him  for  the  black 
smith  tongs.  We  need  them,  the  tongs." 

For  what?  North  wondered,  and  grew  conscious 
of  the  throb  occasioned  by  a  crude  flight  of  steps 
shaking  from  the  tread  of  someone  slowly  mounting. 
With  the  labour  of  carrying  a  cumbersome  burden, 
a  massive  individual  had  begun  to  toil  upward  toward 
the  loft.  Step  by  step,  moving  slowly  and  with 
balanced  care,  he  was  conveying  a  lax  form  which 
must  be  that  of  a  wounded  man.  Irregular  ticking 
sounds  rose  with  him — the  drip-drip  of  flowing  blood. 

"  Who's  hurt  ? "  Nat  questioned.     "  Is  it  Dave  ? " 

"Don't  feel  like  me,"  a  voice  from  the  stairs 
answered,  and  one  heard  a  gasp,  a  gritting  of  teeth. 


272  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

"No,  it  don't.  Feels  like  somebody  sorta  spoilt. 
Too  much  iron  in  my  carcass  to  feel  right  chipper." 

"It's  in  the  bone,  the  thigh  bone,"  the  woman 
affirmed,  still  with  her  eye  to  the  peep-hole  between 
the  logs.  "Yes,  the  thigh-bone,  and  bedded  in  solid. 
A  lance-point,  most  likely.  Too  big  for  an  arrow 
head.  We  can't  get  it  out.  But  tongs,  the  black 
smith's  tongs.  .  .  ." 

Nat,  apparently,  was  not  a  man  to  control  his 
curiosity  about  this  matter.  "How,"  he  asked,  "did 
Dave  get  prodded?  Was  he  driving  the  mower?" 

"I  was."  The  injured  man  gulped.  He  could 
be  heard  declaring,  after  he  had  been  carried  out  of 
sight,  into  the  loft:  "Two  guns  on  the  mower-seat. 
Yeh,  two  guns,  sure  as  Christ!  Only  me,  I  didn't 
bother  about  'em,  cleaned  out,  emigrated,  ran  like 
a  whitehead." 

Hoarsely  and  harshly  he  went  on  babbling,  but 
what  he  was  saying  had  jumbled  together  into  a 
syllabification  wholly  unintelligible.  A  comradely 
voice,  at  the  same  time,  talked  to  the  wounded  man, 
telling  him  not  to  fret  himself,  and  to  keep  still  now, 
if  he  could;  for  where  was  the  good  to  "blab  and  gab 
and  go  on  that-a  way?" 

The  woman  said,  without  looking  around: 

"Dave  talks,  you  can't  stop  him.  Awful  down  at 
the  mouth,  poor  lad.  Got  rattled,  and  lit  out,  and 
keeps  on  making  that  kind  of  a  row." 

Briskly  North  suggested  that  perhaps  she  had  some 
lint  ready.  Had  she?  And  would  she  tell  him, 
please,  where  he  might  find  some  white  cloth,  cotton, 
or  linen,  which  might  be  used  for  a  dressing? 

Intently  watchful  as  before,  he  heard  her  saying, 


Beleaguered  273 

"That  .  .  .  of  course  .  .  .  ready.  But  no 
hot  water.  That's  the  trouble.  Tea-kettle's  empty. 
And  Hawk,  you  see,  when  he  ran  out.  .  .  .  He's 
gone  to  the  forge  after  the  tongs.  .  .  .  Took 
the  bucket,  the  water  bucket;  I  saw  him  take  it. 
But  why?  What  made  him?  I  don't  know." 

As  she  spoke  a  quick  waspish  sound  spat  through 
the  room.  Something  went  chug  into  the  wall.  An 
arrow  had  stuck  there,  with  its  slender  shaft  still 
a-quiver. 

Then,  as  two  rifle  shots  resounded  in  the  room,  the 
mound  of  bedding  on  the  floor  began  to  move,  to 
open  a  breach  at  the  top,  whence  came  forth  the 
heads  of  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  But  the 
tanned  and  moist  little  faces  dodged  back  at  once. 

"Now,  now!"  the  woman  rebuked,  having  glimpsed 
the  earthquake  undulations  of  the  feather  beds. 
"Don't  you  do  that  again.  Daddy  won't  have  it. 
He'll  scold.  I'll  tell  him,  and  he'll  scold." 

Distant  guns  went  off,  a  few  scattering  shots,  not 
much  louder  than  small  hailstones  against  a  greased 
paper  windowpane.  Now  and  again  one  heard  a  dull 
thump,  as  of  a  slug  taking  lodgment  in  a  log,  with 
a  wooden  drum-beat.  From  time  to  time,  as  the 
most  daring  of  the  warriors  made  a  sally,  racing  up 
close  to  the  house  on  their  swift  ponies,  one  heard  a 
crash  of  muskets.  Arrows  also  slit  the  air.  They 
stabbed  wall  and  ceiling,  they  stuck  about  the  win 
dows.  One  must  have  hit  a  spike-head,  for  it  re 
bounded,  clicked  sharply  on  the  floor.  As  North 
picked  up  the  feathered  shaft  he  saw  that  its  point 
had  bent  like  a  fish-hook.  Could  it  be  possible,  he 
wondered,  that  the  war-bow  of  the  Sioux  and  the 


274  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Cheyenne  justified  its  reputation  as  being  an  arm 
more  powerful  than  a  cavalry  pistol? 

While  he  examined  the  arrow,  grooved,  slim,  deli 
cately  balanced,  he  heard  a  deep  voice  insisting: 

"She  ought  to  lie  down.  Eh,  Doctor,  don't  you 
say  so?  Hadn't  she  ought  to?" 

Brawny  and  quiet,  the  questioner  was  he  who  had 
carried  the  wounded  man  upstairs.  "Ought  to  lie 
down,"  he  repeated,  "in  the  bedding  there,  with  the 
children.  Hadn't  she?" 

He  had  rested  a  sun-browned  hand  upon  the 
woman's  shoulder,  not  merely  with  firmness  but  with 
the  imploring  and  protecting  kindness  of  a  husband 
whose  wife  has  come  near  to  the  season  of  childbirth. 

"She  shouldn't  be  on  her  feet,"  North  emphati 
cally  asserted.  "Certainly,  certainly  not!" 

Disdaining  to  answer,  gazing  nowhere  but  through 
the  chink,  into  the  strong  white  light,  the  powerful 
sunshine  of  the  plains,  she  affirmed  quite  reasonably: 

"Water,  of  course — hot  water  will  be  needed.  A 
fool  trick  to  take  the  bucket  away.  If  only  we.  ..." 

A  brisk  clamour  of  rifles  engulfed  what  she  was 
saying,  and  a  penetrating  smell  of  powder  smoke, 
harsh  and  gaseous,  thickened  unpleasantly.  The 
eddying  vapour  gave  everything  a  bluish  tinge,  and 
where  sunshine  pierced  through  chinks  one  could 
see  motes  of  dust  mixing  and  trembling  with  the 
dissolving  fumes.  All  at  once  a  weird  and  screeching 
wail  clove  the  air — the  scream  of  a  horse  mortally  hurt. 

"I  wish,  Cora,"  the  ranchman  entreated,  "I  da 
wish  you  would;  but — h'm! — you  won't.  A  sense 
less  thing;  it  don't  help  any  to  stand  like  that.  But 
you  won't  lie  down." 


Beleaguered  275 

He  sighed,  shrugged,  went  away  to  mount  guard 
at  a  loop-hole.  Rifle  in  hand,  dirty,  begrimed, 
powder-burned,  he  showed  the  effects  of  the  fight  in 
the  hayfield;  and  what  with  his  shirt  being  drenched 
with  perspiration,  the  wet  cloth  disclosed  the  easy 
play  of  great  muscles  on  shoulder  and  back. 

The  most  curious  phase  of  the  situation  was  its 
matter-of-factness,  as  if  fighting  were  not  an  ordeal, 
but  an  occupation.  Now  and  again,  when  the  guns 
were  still,  scraps  of  conversation  could  be  heard. 
Someone  informed  Nat  about  the  funeral  of  the 
herd-boy  trampled  to  death,  the  burial  having  taken 
place  last  night,  after  sundown.  Two  marksmen 
started  an  argument  concerning  the  relative  merits 
of  mince  pie  and  pumpkin  pie. 

"Coming!"  the  woman  exclaimed.  "Here  he 
comes.  But  the  tongs?  Yes,  he  has  them.  And 
the  bucket." 

From  without  sounded  a  brisk  sheep-bell  sort  of 
clanking,  as  of  a  tin  cup  knocking  about  inside  an 
empty  pail. 

The  man  called  Hawk  had  scarcely  bounded  into 
the  room,  with  North  jerking  open  the  door,  before 
the  woman  anxiously  inquired  why  he  had  used  up 
all  the  water. 

What,  she  hadn't  seen  what  he  was  up  to?  He 
panted,  he  explained  with  rags  of  phrases.  "Stable 
sheds  .  .  .  hay  roofs  .  .  .  fire-arrow.  There 
in  time.  Bet  I  was!  Doused  it  out.  I  did,  by 
thunder!  And  whuzz!  I  got  this.  Lookee.  Shows 
up  something  grand,  don't  it?" 

He  carefully  projected  his  arm — carefully,  lest  the 
arrow  which  had  pierced  his  shirt  sleeve  should  fall 


276  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

out.  Instantly  the  men  began  to  make  nonsense 
of  his  exploit.  They  scoffed,  they  pretended  to  be 
skeptical.  He  had  picked  up  that  toothpick,  and 
shoved  it  through  his  sleeve,  and  come  in  to  brag  and 
swell  around  and  act  noble. 

Nothing  of  the  sort !  No,  sir.  Hawk  had  dashed 
out  the  blaze,  had  chased  along  to  the  forge,  got  the 
tongs,  and  then,  by  thunder.  .  .  . 

"Aw,  take  a  walk!"  a  jeering  comrade  advised. 
And  the  man  with  the  arrow  grew  exasperated,  he 
tried  to  explain,  he  flung  the  tongs  clattering  to  the 
floor. 

"Don't  mind  them,"  the  woman  consoled.  "Don't 
get  so  provoked.  What  makes  you?  Can't  you  see 
it's  only  to  plague  you  and  get  you  roiled  that  they 
go  on  like  that?" 

"That's  the  way  they  do,"  he  declared.  "They 
act  smart.  Well,  all  right;  let  them.  They  can  go 
to  the  devil,  with  their  grins  and  their  rotten  jokes." 
His  mood  shifted.  He  sank  on  one  knee,  rifle  in  hand, 
and  kept  talking  as  he  peered  through  an  open  chink 
between  the  logs.  One  saw  him  wag  his  head  as  with 
vague  words  he  deplored  something  in  particular. 

"The  gray  mare  .  .  .  arrows  .  .  .  stuck 
full  .  .  .  regular  pin  cushion.  Dead,  of  course." 
He  couldn't  forget  the  whinnies  of  her  colt.  "Little 
fellow  wasn't  scared,  but  hungry;  that's  it,  hungry. 
Wanted  his  dinner,  and  she,  his  mother.  .  .  ." 

"Don't!"  North  objected,  with  his  mouth  close 
to  the  man's  ear;  and  Hawk  glanced  up  in  puzzled 
surprise,  adding  with  regret: 

"It's  bad.  A  man  don't  like  to  see  that.  It, 
somehow  it's  bad!" 


Beleaguered  277 

"Yes,  yes;  but  hush,  for  heaven's  sake!"  He 
glanced  significantly  toward  the  ranchman's  wife; 
and  the  young  fellow,  now  that  he  understood  his 
own  tactlessness,  called  himself  a  leather-head. 

"Didn't  think,"  he  mumbled.  "Ought  to  have 
more  sense.  But  I,  it  seems,  I  talk;  I  blab  away!" 

As  a  ripping  crepitation  suddenly  jarred  the  room, 
the  acute  ear  of  the  physician  caught  the  whimpering 
outcries  in  the  loft.  The  noise  of  guns  had  perhaps 
given  the  wounded  man  his  chance  to  let  himself 
go;  for  doubtless  he  supposed  that  his  groans  would 
not  now  be  heard  by  his  comrades. 

"This  won't  do,"  North  told  himself,  chafing  with 
impatience;  for  he  thought  of  the  man  gored  by  the 
buffalo,  as  well  as  the  one  hurt  by  the  Indian  lance. 
"Why  dawdle?  Why  be  idling  here,  while  those 
two  patients  lie  uncared  for  up  there  in  that  stifling 
heat?" 

Action  was  the  thing.  He  snatched  up  the  bucket, 
he  demanded  a  hot  fire.  "Lively  now,"  he  ordered, 
as  he  sped  toward  the  front  door.  "White  cloth 
and  lint,  Mrs.  Marvin.  Must  have  that,  and  hot 
water,  and  get  a-going." 

"Don't  go  out.  You  sha'n't!"  the  woman  inter 
dicted.  "A  crazy  thing  to  do." 

"The  well's  in  front.     I  saw  it,"  said  North. 

"Stop  him!"  the  woman  shrilled. 

"Be  right  back,"  the  doctor  added.  "A  brisk 
fire.  Must  have  hot  water." 

"Grab  him,  stop  him!" 

But  no  one  stopped  him.  Rifle  shooting  had  be 
gun  again,  a  brief  and  tearing  frenzy  of  guns. 

North  jerked  the  door  open,  and  started  nimbly 


278  Wine  o    the  Winds 

forth  into  the  eye-wounding  glare  and  torpor  of  dog- 
day  sun.  As  he  strode  along,  bucket  on  arm,  he 
noticed  that  the  distant  hayfield,  now  deserted  and 
desolate,  still  feebly  fumed  from  ash  heaps  and  burnt- 
out  violence. 

Some  twenty  paces  from  the  threshold  a  spotted 
Indian  pony  lay  in  a  lax  heap,  with  legs  doubled 
under  and  neck  outstretched — a  huddled  mass, 
stone  dead. 


CHAPTER  V 
"Fritnd" 

WINKING  in  the  glare  of  sunshine,  with 
thoughts  for  little  else  than  professional 
exigency,  North  went  rapidly  toward  the 
well.  To  the  south  he  could  see  no  galloping  ponies. 
Only  the  one,  apparently,  had  been  killed.  Passing 
within  a  few  strides  of  the  fallen  beast,  war-plumed 
and  painted,  with  feathers  in  mane  and  tail  idly 
a-flutter  in  a  whiff  of  wind,  North  went  by  the  water- 
trough,  and  seized  a  gray-bleached  rope;  then,  above 
the  timbered  curb,  the  pulley  creaked,  while  a  moist 
coolness  came  up  to  him  from  the  deep  hole.  As  the 
dripping  well-bucket  rose,  it  caught  the  sun,  flashing 
brightly,  and  drops  struck  the  water,  echoing  in  a 
splatter  of  sounds  from  far  below. 

North  had  nearly  filled  the  kitchen  pail  when  a 
twinge  of  white-hot  pain  stabbed  through  him. 
What  could  it  be?  Precisely  as  if  a  bent  branch 
might  have  sprung  back  and  struck  him  below  the 
shoulder,  a  smart  blow  spun  him  half  around.  A 
twig,  notched  at  the  end,  with  feather  guides  along 
the  slender  stem,  protruded  from  his  body  below 
the  left  shoulder.  A  grotesque  notion  came  to  him: 
"It's  like  a  wall-peg.  I  could  hang  my  hat  on  it." 
He  gave  the  thing  a  little  pull,  but  it  did  not  come  out. 
Under  his  shirt  a  flow  of  liquid  warmth  gushed  down. 

279 


280  Wine  o    the  Winds 

"Hell!  "he  muttered.     "I'm  hit." 

He  could  hardly  believe  in  this  happening.  No 
one  in  sight.  Nowhere  an  Indian.  Incredible,  then 
— really  absurd  that  he  should  have  an  arrow  punched 
through  him.  But  here  it  was,  all  the  same,  a 
feathered  hat-peg!  Down  his  back  he  could  feel 
a  rapid  seepage  of  blood,  while  in  front  a  crimsoning 
stain  came  blotting  out  through  the  gray  fabric 
of  his  shirt. 

"It  can't  be,"  he  told  himself.  Then  he  grew 
naively  vexed.  Such  a  thing  as  this  shouldn't  hap 
pen  to  a  man  who  has  his  work  to  do.  It  was  wrong. 
A  contemptible,  shameless  trick.  And  all  the  more 
disgusting  since  vacancy  alone  seemed  to  have  shot 
this  shaft. 

But  something  moved  on  the  other  side  of  the  dead 
pony.     He    could    not    be    mistaken.     Not    merely 
wind-fluttered    feathers,    but    something.     .     .     . 
"You,  was  it?"  he  peevishly  called  out. 

A  crafty  head  had  raised  itself;  and  malignant  pur- 
pose  showed  in  the  fleet  bending  of  a  bow.  But  this 
time  it  was  with  ebbing  strength  and  wavering  un 
certainty  that  the  thing  bent  and  sprung,  while  the 
released  arrow  took  a  brief  flight  only.  Nor  did 
the  brown,  lithe  body  dodge  back  into  hiding,  but 
went  lax  all  over,  and  sank  across  the  dead  horse, 
heedlessly  sprawling  there. 

Wounded,  eh?  "Hurt?"  North  called  out.  "But 
what,  old  boy,  if  you're  not  really  hurt,  and  only 
shamming?  You  may  do  something  nasty  if  I 
.  .  .  Whew!  I'll  risk  it,  though.  I'll  have  a  look 
at  you." 

Briskly  yet  circumspectly  he  approached;  and  he 


"Friend"  281 

was  thinking  as  he  went:  "To  be  pegged  like  this, 
why  doesn't  it  hurt  more?  Later  the  pain  will  come;, 
but  now,  as  if  the  nerves  were  stunned.  .  .  ." 
He  was  interested  in  his  condition.  "In  excite 
ment,"  he  told  himself,  "  the  range  of  vision  seems 
to  be  enlarged.  I  don't  look  at  this  bucket  of  water; 
I  look  ahead,  and  yet  the  tin  cup  floats,  it  bobs  on  the 
water,  and  I  see  it  bobbing.  Ordinarily  I  wouldn't. 
Or  would  I?"  Later  he  would  experiment  to  satisfy 
himself  on  that  point.  But  how  queer  that  the  mind 
should  have  so  many  facets!  In  a  flash  he  could  be 
thinking  of  a  hundred  things,  and  yet  have  his  main 
attention  focussed  on  something  quite  different.  But 
his  chief  thought  was: 

"I'd  better  watch  out.  Don't  want  to  get  a  knife- 
blade  into  me.  Confound  him,  I  wish  he'd  drop  that 
bow.  He's  hurt,  but  he  grips  it,  hangs  on  to  it." 
Suspiciously  halting,  North  called  out:  "Hey,  now, 
no  tricks !  Let  me  turn  you  over — so !  In  the  chest, 
eh?  No  blood;  but  a  hole — a  little,  inconspicuous 
hole.  And  how  the  air  does  whistle  in!  Pulse 
laboured  and  choppy.  Can't  have  you  for  my  hos 
pital;  you,  with  that  little  hole  in  your  chest!  And 
seeing  what  a  specimen  you  are,  anatomically  per 
fect,  I  wish  I  might.  But  you're  done  for,  you 
plucky  devil!  I  wonder  that  you  had  the  strength 
left  in  you  to  give  me  this.  Amazing,  it's  amazing. 
.  .  .  Here,  drink.  Come,  open  your  mouth. 
I'm  in  a  hurry.  A  few  cold  swallows  .  .  .  do 
you  good." 

A  brown  bare  arm  jerkily  moved;  and  the  hand, 
still  gripping  the  bow,  struck  out  with  spent  violence, 
giving  the  proffered  tin  cup  a  denting  knock.  Ear- 


282  Wine  o    the  Winds 

rings  of  white  shell  angrily  quivered,  and  the  dark 
eyes  feverishly  blazed.  The  warrior  had  raised  him 
self.  By  a  grappling  wilfulness  of  determination 
he  sat  up;  and  panting  for  breath,  his  white  teeth 
a-gleam  and  the  bullet-hole  raucously  wheezing,  he 
leaned  forward,  shaking  with  weakness  and  racial 
hate.  He  did  more  than  summon  this  remarkable 
energy.  In  a  triumph  of  malignancy  he  spat  a  stream 
of  blood-mottled  saliva  into  the  doctors  face. 

"Such  manners!"  North  exclaimed.  "You  don't 
like  us,  eh?  Of  course  not,  of  course."  Mopping 
his  face  with  a  sleeve,  he  dipped  the  dented  cup  right 
back  into  the  bucket.  "Cold  water.  Take  some," 
he  insisted  with  impatient  eagerness.  "It's  fresh. 
You'll  like  it;  sure  to.  The  sun's  so  hot!  What, 
you  won't?  Too  bad.  Sorry,  but  I  can't  stay  here 
coaxing.  Work  to  do.  You  might,  at  least,  take 
this  tin  cup  in  your  hand.  There,  that's  it,  that's 
the  way.  Now  we  begin  to  understand  each  other. 
Wish  I  might  carry  you  in  out  of  the  sun.  Can't, 
though.  Maybe,  if  you  hadn't  stuck  this  into  me. 
'.  .  .  How  did  you  manage  it,  hey?  with  so  little 
strength!" 

North  had  dipped  his  handkerchief  in  the  water, 
that  he  might  sponge  off  the  lips,  the  tumid  lips  all 
parched  and  glossy  and  cracking  open  like  old  varnish. 
The  mouth  began  to  relax,  it  opened  a  little,  and  the 
hand  with  the  filled  tin  cup  began  to  raise  itself 
feebly. 

"I  thought  so!"  North  exclaimed.  "Water  is 
what  you  want.  I  knew  it.  Well,  then,  drink!" 

The  hissing  of  the  bullet-hole  grew  more  pro 
nounced  while  the  Indian  drank.  He  hardly  swal- 


"Friend"  283 

lowed,  he  let  the  water  run  down  his  throat  while 
North  held  the  cup  for  him.  Afterward,  when  the 
whistling  heave  of  the  brown  chest  resumed  its 
former  rhythm,  the  dark  eyes  seemed  to  lose  their 
malignant  ferocity.  And  the  brown  fingers  shut 
zestfully  upon  the  dripping  cup,  when  it  was  once 
more  pressed  back  into  the  dark  hand,  as  something 
to  be  left  with  the  dying  man.  In  the  moment  that 
this  was  done  for  him  he  dryly  gave  voice  to  some  sort 
of  husky  articulation.  It  was  Dakota  speech  — 
two  syllables,  laboriously  gasped: 


North,  fortunately,  knew  the  significance  of  that 
word.  He  understood  that  the  dying  man  had  called 
him  "Friend." 

This  word  being  uttered,  there  remained  nothing 
more  for  the  warrior  to  do  but  to  answer,  in  the  native 
way,  the  calling  of  the  ghosts.  A  toilsome  chant  he 
struggled  to  pant  forth;  for  it  must  have  been  plain 
to  him  that  he  had  been  mortally  hurt,  and  hence  it 
was  necessary  for  him  to  begin  singing  his  song  of 
death. 

As  North  hurried  back  into  the  house,  with  drops 
spatting  down  from  his  water  bucket,  all  appeared 
indistinct,  veiled  by  swirling  vapours  of  choking 
powder  smoke. 

"  Called  me  friend.  'Cola!  '  "  he  fantastically  jubi 
lated.  "That  means  *  friend  '.  He's  dying,  and 
he  .  .  ." 

In  startled  astonishment  someone  cried  out: 

"My  God,  he's  spitted!" 

"An  arrow,"  North  explained,  as  if  people  could 
not  see  what  it  was.  "I'm  bleeding,  underclothes 


284  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

all  sticky,  awfully  disagree  .  .  .  Hark!  Hear 
that  ?  His  song  of  death.  And  he  called  me  friend ! " 

As  the  weighty  bucket  was  taken  from  the  doctor's 
hand,  "That's  it;  thanks,"  he  said.  "Fill  up  the  tea 
kettle.  Must  have  hot  water.  .  .  .  The  poor 
devil  didn't  want  to  drink.  Lips  all  cracked  open, 
and  yet.  .  .  .  But  I  got  some  down  him.  He 
liked  it.  Awfully  grateful." 

Someone  behind  North  was  trying  to  cut  through 
the  arrow  shaft,  to  get  rid  of  the  point;  and  he 
winced  as  he  felt  a  tearing  wrench  in  his  wound. 

"Hurry  up!"  he  commanded,  with  irritable  im 
patience.  "  Why  the  devil  are  you  so  long  about  it  ? " 

He  must  be  getting  to  work.     Such  a  lot  to  do ! 

The  whittling  continued.  Made  of  some  wood 
astonishly  tough,  the  arrow  had  to  be  held  still  while 
the  knife-blade  cut  through  it. 

"Tongs,"  North  was  saying,  "blacksmith  tongs — 
ha,  what  delicate  instruments  for  a  surgical  case! 
Must  use  them,  though.  And  I  can.  See,  my  right 
arm,  fortunately.  .  .  .  Good  it's  the  left  side 
instead  of  the  right." 

The  iron  point  being  cut  away,  he  himself  gripped 
the  arrow's  feathered  end,  and  deftly  unsheathed 
the  slippery  shaft  from  the  wound.  As  he  cast  the 
stick  from  him,  it  struck  sharply  upon  the  floor  and 
rebounded,  leaving  spatters  of  red.  Only  when  he 
stooped  to  catch  up  the  tongs  did  momentary  dizzi 
ness  come  upon  him,  making  everything  in  the  room 
seem  to  heave,  while  a  drift  of  black  specks  whirled 
before  his  eyes. 

As  they  stopped  their  dance,  and  as  the  floor  left 
off  its  strange  tip-tilting,  to  lie  decorously  flat  again, 


"Friend"  285 

he  told  himself:  "That's  good;  that's  all  right.  I 
sha'n't  faint."  He  started  at  once  toward  the  stair 
case,  but  cautiously,  lest  the  planks  should  again 
begin  their  giddy  trick  of  rocking  under  his  feet. 

"What's  this,  what's  this?"  he  exclaimed.  "You?" 

The  thing  vastly  astonishing  to  him  was  that  the 
ranchman's  wife,  on  hands  and  knees,  should  be 
dragging  herself  up  the  flight  of  steps,  laboriously 
crawling. 

"Must  help,"  she  answered  with  decisiveness,  and 
jkept  on  with  her  toiling  efforts.  "I  can.  We'll 
make  the  riffle.  Get  the  boys  cared  for — that's  the 
first  thing.  Are  you  much  hurt?" 

"Come  down,"  North  summarily  demanded. 
"You  can't  help.  Not  the  thing.  Leave  the  lint 
there  on  the  step,  and  the  cloth.  I  sha'n't  need  you. 
Send  me  Nat." 

Since  she  did  nothing  but  continue  her  dragging 
ascent,  he  cried  out  in  angry  disapproval: 

"Faugh,  this  won't  do!  A  senseless,  unnecessary 
thing  to  undertake.  Let  me  tell  you,  madam,  I 
sha'n't  hold  myself  responsible  for  your  case  if  you 
.  .  .  How  can  you  behave  like  this? — you,  who 
know  so  well  that  you  shouldn't!" 

He  couldn't  quite  make  out  what  she  was  answer 
ing;  but  it  seemed  to  be  something  about  dear  boys 
who  fuss  and  fume;  and  what  makes  them?  Had 
the  arrow  missed  his  lung,  or  not  ?  How  reckless  of 
him  to  run  out  like  that.  A  shame  and  a  pity,  so 
it  was!  And  the  poor  lads  needing  him  so! 

Halting  and  sitting  down  on  a  step  to  give  herself 
a  breathing  spell,  she  looked  below  into  the  room, 
and  shook  her  head  with  disapproval  as  the  mound 


286  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

of  feather  beds  began  stealthily  to  quake.  It  could 
be  seen  that  the  two  children  were  once  more  mov 
ing  restlessly  about  inside  that  obese  cocoon. 

"I  see  you!"  their  mother  called  down  to  them,  as 
heads  and  shoulders  slyly  peeped  forth.  "None  o' 
that.  Get  back  at  once.  Stay  covered  up  till 
Mother  says  it's  all  right  to  come  out." 

They  whined  and  whimpered  and  coaxed — but 
obeyed,  for  she  shamed  them  into  obedience.  Then 
she  added,  indulgently  smiling: 

"It's  hot.  They  don't  like  it,  the  poor  dears.  So 
awfully  hot,  a  regular  smother." 

North  passed  her,  mounting  the  few  remaining 
steps  into  the  stuffiness  of  the  loft  under  the  low- 
pitched  roof.  He  was  followed  by  the  woman,  un- 
flaggingly  resolute,  courageously  determined  to  give 
the  last  atom  of  her  strength  for  the  succour  of  men 
wofully  needing  to  be  helped. 

Assisting  her  to  her  feet,  with  what  gentleness  and 
strength  he  could  command,  North  shook  his  head 
over  her,  exclaiming  in  wonder  and  in  reverence: 

"You  shouldn't,  of  course;  but,  all  the  same.  .  .  . 
And  I  know  of  others — at  least  two  other  women — 
who  would  behave  in  this  situation  exactly  as  you 
are  behaving!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

Achievement 

TN  THE  brownish  and  sunburned  grass,  over  a  wide 
••'  acreage,  are  scattered  curious  white  heaps  where 
JL  predatory  beaks  make  a  clacking  noise.  Now 
and  again  a  welter  of  wings  darkly  pulses  up,  to  settle 
again  where  other  slatted  ribs  and  carcass  skulls 
blotch  the  prairie  like  a  chalky  scurf. 

Wherever  wolf-fangs  have  not  yet  finished  with 
the  bones,  the  ravens  are  scared  away.  Cawing  and 
growling  disputes  clamour  out  of  space. 

But  why  quarrel?  Come,  buzzard;  come,  crow; 
come,  coyote;  come,  all  ye  scavengers  of  the  plains! 
For  here  is  still  dead  flesh  a-plenty;  there  will  be 
feasting  for  days  to  come.  Horny  bills  need  not 
peck  for  ticks  into  the  backs  of  living  buffalo,  since 
with  the  killing  of  many  cattle  there  should  be  suet 
and  meat  enough,  fat  meat  and  lean  meat  for  all. 

Little  prairie  wolves  are  cautious  in  their  approach. 
They  slink  furtively  about  a  pile  of  abandoned  bones, 
now  going,  now  coming,  circuitously  sniffing.  Do 
they,  perhaps,  scent  wood  and  iron?  Something 
which  may  still  be  giving  off  a  hint  ominous  of  man  ? 
Arrows,  eh?  Well,  one  is  right  to  beware  of  them! 

Many  shafts  have  buried  their  points  in  the 
paunches  of  cattle  soberly  grazing;  and  although  the 
chewed  grass  keeps  on  running  out  through  the  arrow- 

287 


288  Wine  oy  the  Winds 

holes,  the  wounds,  it  is  probable,  are  eventually 
to  close  up  and  heal. 

Seeing  that  four  horses  stalled  in  the  sod-built 
stable  had  been  spared  the  ravages  of  the  raid,  Mar 
vin  observed,  on  the  day  that  North  was  leaving: 

"Not  so  bad,  not  so  bad.  Take  it  all  around, 
we've  come  out  of  it  pretty  lucky." 

As  a  companionable  thing  to  do,  by  way  of  speed 
ing  the  guest  who  had  been  of  untold  service  pro 
fessionally,  the  ranchman  was  riding  a  few  miles  with 
the  doctor;  and  while  they  cantered  along,  North 
inquired  whether  the  Indian,  killed  near  the  well, 
had  been  buried. 

"But  no,  of  course,"  he  added.  "How  stupid  not 
to  remember  about  that!  Two  friends  of  his,  on 
their  ponies,  caught  him  up  and  carried  him  off.  I 
was  told  so,  but  I  forget  who  told  me." 

"Daredevils!"  Marvin  exclaimed,  with  a  shrug 
signifying,  perhaps,  that  he  would  like  to  forget  the 
whole  affair.  "Well,  and  how  goes  it  with  the 
puffy  shoulder?"  he  asked.  "Painful,  I  reckon. 
Must  be  wicked  sore." 

"Some  inflammation  and  swelling;  a  little  infection, 
too,"  North  replied.  "But  nothing  to  be  uneasy 
about."  Special  gratification  he  expressed  regarding 
the  sling  of  brown  linen  which  Mrs.  Marvin  had 
provided  for  him. 

"Doing  well,  ain't  she?"  the  ranchman  inquired. 

"Surprisingly  well,"  the  doctor  answered.  "An 
easy  birth,  and  a  fine  baby,  strong-limbed  and 
sound." 

"Yes!"  the  father  emphatically  agreed.  "A  fine 
baby,  sure!" 


Achievement  289 

After  parting  with  the  ranchman  at  the  end  of  a  few 
miles  North  could  hardly  wait  to  get  back  to  the 
wagon-camp.  He  had  done  well ;  he  knew  he  had,  and 
now  what  he  needed  was  someone  to  rejoice  with  him. 

Alice,  to  be  sure,  would  not  be  there  to  offer  felici 
tations;  but  her  image  was  constantly  before  his 
mind.  He  recalled  the  circumstance  of  their  meet 
ing,  after  his  return  from  Twin  Cotton  woods:  very 
little  said,  but  how  much  expressed  by  what  was  to  be 
read  in  her  gentle  eyes  and  by  the  beatitude  of  an 
understanding  silence!  She  had  gloried  in  his 
achievement.  Whatever  doubts  had  afterward  as 
sailed  him,  he  knew  that  then,  surely,  she  had  been 
proud  of  him. 

Riding  swiftly  along,  he  grew  conscious,  presently, 
of  a  tune  running  in  his  head;  he  even  began  to  hum 
the  simple  melody,  but  at  first  did  not  know  what  it 
was.  Then,  in  astonishment,  he  realized: 

"Why,  it's  a  song,  it's  Winnie's  little  song,  'Wine 
o'  the  Winds/ J; 

He  would  see  her  presently.  She  would  be  glad  of 
his  return  and  of  his  accomplishment. 

He  went  on  humming  that  homely  ballad  of  the 
cattle  trail;  he  hummed  it  consciously,  zestfully,  with 
a  realization  that  carking  remorse  and  morbid 
brooding  had  been  thrust  aside,  finally,  by  rough, 
rude  forces,  by  elemental  ordeals,  by  the  big,  in 
vigorating  winds  of  life  which  blow  adventurously. 

North  told  himself: 

"  She  will  be  watchful  for  my  return.  A  long  way 
off  she  will  see  me.  And — who  knows? — perhaps 
she  will  come  dashing  out  on  her  horse,  to  give  me 
welcome." 


290  Wine  0'  the  Winds 

He  even  had  the  idea  that  she  might  possibly  come 
to  him  dressed  becomingly,  in  girlish  fashion,  with  all 
the  feminine  airs  and  graces  that  it  would  be  possible 
for  her  to  command.  Only  nothing  of  the  sort  really 
did  happen.  It  couldn't  happen.  In  the  hush  of 
the  camp,  as  he  drew  near,  in  the  brooding  silence, 
he  felt  the  icy  misgiving  which  comes  to  us,  we  know 
not  why,  to  stab  the  heart  with  an  intimation  of  ir 
retrievable  disaster. 

In  the  after  years  he  was  wont  to  think  of  how  he 
had  tried  resolutely  to  go  on  humming  the  refrain  of 
Winnie's  song;  and  how  the  air  and  the  verse  had 
eluded  his  memory,  as  if  all  the  courage  and  robust 
spirit  and  sweetness  of  the  brave  little  melody  had 
gone  away,  to  the  last  echo — gone  utterly,  and  never 
to  come  again. 


PART  VIII 

SUNSET 


CHAPTER  I 

"Jumped  Us" 

IT  WAS  Sunday.  If,  then,  the  wagon-camp  lacked 
activity  of  every  sort,  North  could  urge  himself  to 
believe  that  the  hush  meant  nothing  more  than 
the  accustomed  calm  of  sabbatical  repose.  He  tried 
to  take  cheer  from  the  bright  serenity.  But  the 
more  he  reasoned  that  all  was  well,  the  more  un 
reasonably  his  dread  refused  to  be  driven  out.  For 
the  suspicion  came  to  him  that  the  manner  of  the  men 
was  not  what  it  ought  to  be.  They  did  not  call  out 
to  him  as  he  rode  up;  they  had  no  greetings,  rough 
and  hearty;  several  teamsters  even  showed  a  hang 
dog  guiltiness,  like  schoolboys  trying  to  look  in 
nocent. 

Doug  Davis  alone  contrived  to  put  on  a  bold  face. 
'But  what  had  gone  with  his  ease  and  devil-may-care 
nonchalance?  And  why  go  unshaven  of  a  Sunday, 
he  who  was  so  finicking  about  that,  and  about 
curling  the  ends  of  his  black  moustache?  He  even 
spoke  with  exaggerated  heartiness,  in  a  tone  ab 
normally  brisk  and  loud. 

"Here  you  are.  Showed  up  at  last.  But  what's 
this?  Hurt?  Have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

Embarrassment  sounded  in  every  word  he  spoke. 
He  aided  in  the  unsaddling  of  the  horse;  and  it  was 
not  friendly  help  merely,  it  was  something  pro- 

293 


294  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

pitiatory — the  shamefaced  eagerness  of  a  person 
trying  to  confess  and  to  atone.  One  might  have 
thought  that  he  had  never  before  seen  a  horse  all 
darkly  wet  where  the  saddle-blanket  had  rested. 
As  the  animal  lay  down  to  roll,  with  legs  stiffly 
rocking,  Doug  regarded  the  commonplace  per- 
-formance  as  though  it  were  not  merely  interesting  but 
somehow  novel,  not  to  say  vastly  astonishing. 

North  looked  at  him.  He  looked,  and  the  startled 
uneasiness  of  his  eyes  was  the  gaze,  unmistakable, 
of  one  preparing  himself  to  hear  bad  news.  But  he 
said  nothing. 

"We — yesterday,"  David  finally  stammered,  "and 
the  day  before — yes,  and  every  day  since  Wednes 
day — expecting  you." 

"Come,  Doug,"  said  North,  "speak  up,  why 
don't  you?  What's  wrong?" 

"I  know  what;  I  do,  of  course;  everybody  does. 
But — a  long  story.  Better  have  her  tell  it." 

"Her?     Do  you  mean  Winnie  Barton?" 

"No,  for  she's  hardly  able.  She's  hurt.  Mrs. 
Ross  is  who  I  meant.  Come  on.  Better  see  Mrs. 
Ross.  We  been  afraid — all  of  us  been  scary  that 
Winnie  wouldn't  hold  out  till  you  got  back.  I  was 
to  fetch  you  to  her.  I  promised.  She  made  me 
give  my  word  that  I'd  sure  wake  her  up  if  she 
happened  to  be  asleep." 

He  did  not  leave  off  talking;  he  seemed  to  have 
wound  himself  up  to  say  anything  that  came  into  his 
head.  Winnie,  he  declared,  had  been  sleeping  a  lot. 
It  was  the  weakness,  maybe;  it  must  be  that,  the 
weakness.  "One-Eyed  Mike  tries  to  crack  jokes  to 
please  her-  makes  out  pretty  well;  never  knocks  off 


"Jumped  Us"  295 

on  his  funning.  Wants  to  have  her  believe  that 
everything  is  going  to  turn  out  all  right.  Same  here; 
I  try,  we  all  do,  all  try  not  to  pull  a  long  face." 

"Indians?"  North  heard  himself  ask  the  question, 
and  he  remembered  afterward  that  his  voice  sounded 
not  at  all  strained,  but  quiet  and  natural.  It  sur 
prised  him  to  speak  like  that,  especially  so  because 
of  the  labour  it  cost  him — an  almost  overwhelming 
exertion  to  utter  that  simple  word. 

"Tuesday  night—jumped  us,"  Davis  muttered. 

"Night  time — yes;  it  was  in  the Mrs.  Ross  will 

tell Last  Tuesday  night,  that's  when." 

North  said:  "An  arrow,  perhaps.     Was  it?" 

He  received  no  answer.  Davis  had  turned  his  face 
aside  and  would  not  speak. 

The  two  men  strode  rapidly  along,  walking 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  skirting  the  outside  of  the 
wagon-corral. 

Winifred  hurt  ?  Perhaps  mortally  wounded  ?  Im 
possible!  That  could  not  be  so.  North  senselessly 
refused  to  believe  that  anything  of  that  sort  could 
happen;  and  with  the  strain  of  this  forced  disbelief 
trivial  inconsequences  had  begun  to  float  into  mind. 
His  eye  being  caught  by  the  incongruity  of  a  delicate 
ring  worn  on  a  finger  of  Doug's  knuckly  hand,  he 
even  spoke  of  that  bauble.  "A  pretty  setting,  but 
what  kind  of  a  stone?" 

Only  he  didn't  care  in  the  least  about  the  stone. 
He  forgot  it,  he  mentioned  something  else. 

"It's  come  back,"  he  suddenly  announced;  but 
what  had  come  back — that  Winifred's  little  song  had 
begun  to  run  again  in  his  mind — he  did  not  think  to 
tell. 


296  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Abruptly  stopping  short,  he  slanted  his  head  to  one 
side  and  thumped  it  with  the  thick  of  his  palm,  as 
swimmers  do  when  trying  to  get  water  out  of  their 
ears.  Only  this  must  have  been  some  futile  and 
foolish  effort  to  get  rid  of  pain,  and  fear,  and  hope 
lessness.  His  mouth  quivered,  but  his  voice  re 
mained  steady  and  natural  as  he  said  to  Davis: 

"It's  not  right.  A  girl  like  that — such  a  woman — 
we  musn't  let  her  die.  It  won't  do." 

Once  more  he  halted,  and  having  pondered  for  a 
time,  he  gave  instructions  quietly  and  decisively,  as 
a  doctor  should. 

"  You,  Doug — there's  a  good  fellow — you  go  to  her. 
Not  hurriedly,  but  appear  casually  as  if  you  only 
dropped  in  for  a  moment.  If  she's  asleep,  don't  wake 
her.  If  she's  not  asleep,  be  careful  what  you  say. 
No  shocks.  Don't  blurt  out  that  I've  come.  An 
other  horseman  in  sight,  you  can't  make  out  who  it 
is,  and  thus  and  so.  Nothing  to  startle.  Must 
keep  the  fever  down — that's  what  I  want.  I'll  wait. 
Stay  right  here  until  it's  safe  and  right  for  me  to 
come." 

Being  left  alone,  he  was  seized  with  an  almost  irre 
sistible  impulse  to  cry  out:  "Hurry,  Doug!  hurry,  do 
hurry  along!" 

The  assistant  wagon  master  strode  briskly  away, 
going  off  in  the  direction  of  something  not  unlike  the 
square-rigged  sail  of  a  boat;  for  between  two  poles 
vertically  planted  in  the  ground — poles  such  as  are 
used  for  hoisting  wagons  in  order  to  grease  axles — a 
canvas  wagon-sheet  had  been  suspended  for  the  sake 
of  the  heavy  shadow  it  would  cast.  Forming  thus  a 
screen  against  the  sun,  this  object  stood  well  removed 


"Jumped  Us"  297 

from  the  smell  of  cookery  and  the  activities  encom 
passing  the  wagon-camp.  North  understood  at 
once  that  the  men  had  thoughtfully  provided  the 
awning  for  Winifred,  to  make  her  as  comfortable  as 
might  be  in  a  region  nakedly  stripped  to  the  enor 
mous  light  of  the  Great  Plains. 

At  that  screen,  behind  which  Doug  Davis  had  dis 
appeared,  North  continued  to  look,  never  taking  his 
eyes  from  the  gray  patch,  off  yonder,  the  wagon- 
sheet  puckered  into  wrinkles  at  each  of  the  upper 
corners. 

Seconds  passed;  slow  minutes  intolerably  dragged, 
and  although  moisture  glistened  on  his  forehead,  and 
ran  jerkily  down  his  neck  into  the  shirt-band,  he 
sometimes  shivered  as  with  a  passing  chill.  Irri 
tably  consulting  his  watch  from  time  to  time,  he 
once  held  it  to  his  ear  with  the  conviction  that  it  must 
have  stopped.  It  hadn't.  Five  minutes  had  gone 
by — five  interminable  minutes. 

He  must  wait.     He  must  go  on  waiting. 

When  Mrs.  Ross  joined  him  there,  to  tell  him  that 
Winifred  was  asleep,  and  resting  more  quietly  than 
usual,  he  looked  at  her,  and  hardly  heard  what  she 
was  saying. 

She  was  talking  of  Doug  Davis.  He  was  not  rash, 
not  precisely  that;  "headstrong"  was  the  word  she 
used.  Not  a  bit  keen  for  taking  direction  from  any 
body,  or  listening  to  safe  counsel.  Some  wagon 
outfits  had  dug  rifle  pits  after  they  corralled.  Davis 
could  see  no  good  in  them.  They  were  nonsense. 

Last  Tuesday,  at  sunset,  the  wagons  had  halted 
near  a  fine  meadow,  lush  with  bluestem  grass,  a 
piece  of  pasturage  so  alluring  that  nothing  would  do 


298  Wine  o    the  Winds 

him  but  to  have  the  cattle  night-herded  there.  They 
needed  to  graze.  Wouldn't  do  to  keep  them  penned 
up  so  much. 

"How's  her  pulse?"  North  asked.  "Has  she  slept 
long  to-day?" 

With  downcast  eyes  and  lowered  head,  he  had 
spoken  with  difficulty;  then  he  added  with  a  smile 
that  was  like  a  twinge  of  pain: 

"Excuse  me.  I  don't  listen  well.  And  yet  I  do 
hear  you.  Good  bluestem  for  the  cattle — yes. 
And  go  on,  please.  Needless  to  ask  about  her. 
I  am  to  see  her  presently.  Well,  and  then  what? 
Stock  getting  travel-worn,  many  steers  gone  lame, 
I  know  about  that.  You  needn't  tell  anything  but 
the  main  points." 

"  Yes,  of  course.     Well,  as  I  was  saying " 

And  he  thought:  "That's  unnecessary.  Why 
doesn't  she  go  on?" 

"Doug  wouldn't  change  his  mind  about  night- 
herding,  even  though  he  knew  that  Big  Andy  had 
sensed  something.  Andy  favoured  holding  every 
hoof  inside  the  corral.  But,  no  good;  Davis  wouldn't. 
Doubled  the  guard,  though;  and  once  the  cattle  had 
filled  up  on  grass  and  water,  they  bedded  down  com 
fortably  in  the  good  meadow  by  the  river." 

It  was  hard  for  Mrs.  Ross  to  proceed,  feeling  as  she 
did  that  nothing  of  what  she  said  was  being  heed- 
fully  received;  and  seeing  that  North  went  on  looking 
at  the  canvas  screen,  she  interrupted  her  account  to 
say:  "When  she  wakes  up,  I'll  be  told  at  once. 
They'll  signal." 

"Bedded  down  for  the  night,"  North  prompted. 

Mrs.  Ross  went  on  to  say  that  she  would  not  be 


"Jumped  Us"  299 

likely  to  forget  the  sounds  coming  up  out  of  the 
darkness,  the  curious  husky  thumps  which  set  her 
shivering  with  a  dread  indefinable.  Resonant  seed- 
pod  rattlings  had  begun  to  shake  through  the  night — 
noises  not  loud  nor  fierce,  but  terrifying  in  their 
unusualness. 

What  could  it  be?  She  had  listened.  She  had 
raised  the  wagon-sheet  and  peered  out,  with  a  real 
ization  that  daylight  would  soon  be  coming.  But 
what  made  those  sounds  she  had  not  understood? 

"Queer  how  I  awoke,"  she  said.  "As  if  I  had  been 
jerked  to  my  feet." 

She  had  done  her  best  to  make  out  the  significance 
of  the  crusty  thumps,  the  bumping  and  bounding,  as 
of  something  dry  and  hollow  crazily  dragging  along 
the  ground.  Witch-cries  had  wailed.  Rending  hoots 
and  howls  screeched  through  space.  Confused  hub 
bub,  a  roar  of  running  hoofs  had  come  storming 
frantically  up  out  of  the  bottomland.  And  light 
spurted,  yellow  pricks  of  light — gun-shots! 

"We  knew  then,"  said  Mrs.  Ross,  "everybody 
knew  that  the  stock  was  being  run  off.  We  heard 
afterward  that  there  were  eight,  ten,  a  dozen  Indians 
in  the  raid.  But  that,  of  course — nonsense !  There 
were  two.  That's  it;  two  alone  had  turned  the  trick. 
My  husband  ought  to  know;  for  he,  you  understand, 
was  on  night-herd,  and  was  fooled  the  same  as  the 
others  were — fooled  by  the  rattling." 

Even  when  two  ponies  came  blurring  in  through 
the  darkness,  it  was  impossible  to  tell  what  kind  of 
frightfulness  they  had  started.  But  Andy  knew. 
Instantly  he  understood  that  two  rolled-up  rawhides, 
hard  and  stiff,  with  bones  inside  of  them,  were  being 


300  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

dragged  along  by  lariats.  The  click  and  clack  and 
rattle  had  combined  with  yet  another  terror  still  more 
effectual.  It  was  a  smell.  The  stink  of  the  hides 
had  been  a  compelling  factor  in  starting  the  stam 
pede. 

"That  did  the  business,"  Mrs.  Ross  affirmed. 
"Yes,  even  before  those  lung-ripping  yells  snatched 
people  out  of  bed.  Everybody  has  heard  what  an 
infernal  hullabaloo  a  single  coyote  can  make.  He 
can  make  a  body  believe  he's  a  whole  pack  of  wolves. 
And  it's  the  same  with  an  Indian.  Let  two  braves 
whoop  as  they  did  that  night,  and  you  don't  know 
but  what  the  whole  Sioux  nation  has  broken  loose. 
We  thought  so.  Hadn't  a  doubt  in  the  world  that 
our  time  had  come." 

"  But,"  the  woman  added,  and  her  voice  sank  to  an 
admiring  whisper,  "Win  Barton  was  different.  In 
just  no  time  at  all  she  was  on  her  horse,  and  away, 
racing  like  mad  to  go  pushing  in  ahead  of  the  stam 
pede." 

How  "that  harum-scarum  girl,"  as  Mrs.  Ross 
called  her,  rode  with  the  ruck  of  terrified  beasts; 
how  she  kept  shooting  her  revolver  in  front  of 
them  to  turn  the  herd;  how  Big  Andy,  on  a  mule, 
assisted  in  this  exploit;  how  Matt,  the  hunchback, 
had  made  good  progress  on  a  sick  mule,  until  the 
animal  balked  suddenly  and  stood  quivering  all  over, 
exactly  as  if  he  had  butted  against  a  stone  wall — 
every  detail  of  this  Mrs.  Ross  recounted  with  re 
markable  fidelity. 

In  regard  to  the  hunchback's  dilemma  she  said: 

"He  had  to  jump  and  run;  and  a  man  on  foot,  you 
know,  isn't  a  bit  of  good  in  a  case  like  that.  What 


"Jumped  Us"  301 

made  him  think  he  must  help  Andy?  Foolish,  of 
course.  But  he  had  a  rifle  with  him.  Thought  he 
could  help;  went  humping  along  after  the  cattle. 
Excited,  I  suppose;  fearless,  and  excited,  and  never 
thinking  to  put  back  to  the  corral,  after  the  locoed 
mule  had  stopped  short. 

"Now,  if  only  the  dark  had  lasted  a  little  while 
longer!  In  the  dark,  maybe,  the  Indians  mightn't 
have  seen  Matt.  But  day  was  breaking.  They  did 
see  him.  He  crawled  on  hands  and  knees  after  he 
got  hurt — dragged  himself  along  till  he  could  duck 
into  a  buffalo  wallow." 

In  the  irritable  impatience  which  had  come  to 
North  he  began  to  pluck  at  the  frayed  edge  of  the 
sling  holding  the  left  arm.  From  time  to  time,  as  he 
raised  his  eyes,  it  was  to  glower  at  Mrs.  Ross,  as  who 
would  say,  "Why  all  this  mess  of  detail?  Why 
doesn't  she  get  to  the  point?'1 

This  hurry  of  his  could  not  help  matters.  It  only 
confused  her.  She  even  went  back  over  points  al 
ready  told,  intolerably  repeating,  losing  the  thread, 
and  beginning  again. 

Said  North:  "When  Matt  dumped  himself  into 
the  wallow,  did  Andy  see  that?  And  did  Winnie 
see  it?" 

"Yes,  they  did;  they  both  .  .  .  Andy,  you  un 
derstand,  had  been  helping  to  get  the  cattle  turned. 
Winnie  had  pushed  the  leaders  from  north  to  east, 
and  was  giving  them  a  shove  southward,  for  the 
corral.  We  watched  it,  the  whole  herd  walloping 
along  after  the  leaders.  Then,  first  we  knew,  off 
galloped  Andy — no  longer  with  the  cattle,  but  away 
from  them." 


302  Wine  o    the  Winds 

"How  intolerably  she  drags  it  out!"  North  was 
thinking.  "Will  the  woman  never  get  it  told?" 

"Rode  for  the  wallow.  For  Matt,  of  course,  had 
to  have  something  done  for  him.  Must  be  got  out 
of  his  nasty  scrape/* 

What  distressed  Big  Andy  in  particular  had  been  a 
quickening  activity  to  the  northwest,  among  sand 
dunes  and  hillocks  of  the  broken  country.  Animated 
specks  kept  bobbing  up  and  enlarging:  now  three, 
now  four,  others  following.  War-ponies,  of  course! 
A  party  of  braves  furiously  riding  to  finish  the  work 
begun  by  the  two  raiders. 

Could  they  do  it?  Such  a  thing  seemed  unlikely, 
and  all  the  more  improbable  since  the  turning  of  the 
stampede  had  been  accomplished.  The  cattle,  still 
clumsily  galloping,  and  now  all  strung  out  in  trail 
fashion,  had  begun  to  take  direction  from  two  horse 
men,  one  on  either  side,  who  doubtless  understood  the 
exigencies  of  the  situation.  Theirs,  at  least,  had  been 
the  skill  to  keep  the  leaders  pointed  toward  the  wagon- 
corral;  and  once  the  terrified  beasts  had  scented  the 
wonted  odours  of  the  camp,  that  good  and  familiar 
home-smell  promising  security,  they  could  be  de 
pended  upon  to  run  true,  without  further  guidance. 

"Win  Barton  understood  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ross. 
"  She  understood  and  laughed.  She  laughed,  cheer 
ing  hilariously,  swinging  her  man's  hat.  I  wanted 
to  see  her  come  on  in  with  the  stock.  I  watched,  I 
hoped.  But  she  didn't,  though — didn't  come." 

Gun-shooting  had  commenced.  Andy's  mule  had 
stumbled  and  gone  down  all  in  a  heap.  "From  a 
bullet,  perhaps,  or  from  getting  his  hoof  in  a  gopher's 
hole.  We  saw  it,"  Mrs.  Ross  asserted.  "At  once 


"Jumped  Us"  303 

Andy  was  up  and  away,  spry  as  anything,  now  on 
one  knee  to  shoot,  now  up  and  going  it  again." 

North  visualized  the  thing  in  his  mind:  the  rifle, 
blue  in  the  sunshine,  gleaming  like  a  bar  of  glass; 
thick  whiffs  of  smoke  shredding  into  webs  and  dis 
solving  wraiths. 

"Winnie  rode  toward  him,"  Mrs.  Ross  affirmed. 
"Didn't  come  back  with  the  cattle.  We  screamed 
for  her  to  come;  we  yelled  ourselves  hoarse.  She 
wouldn't,  though.  Wild,  reckless,  harum-scarum 
girl!  She  wouldn't  come,  however  much  we  yelled." 

The  rest  need  not  have  been  told.  North  antici 
pated  everything,  knew  it  before  it  was  spoken:  how 
Andy  got  into  the  buffalo  wallow  with  Matt;  how 
Winnie  rode  there,  too,  spurting  along  at  a  frantic 
pace,  and  how  the  two  men  and  the  girl  defended  them 
selves,  effectively  beating  back  the  Indian  assailants 
until  the  supply  of  cartridges  had  been  shot  away. 

"Doug  Davis  called  for  volunteers,"  Mrs.  Ross 
concluded.  "I  give  him  credit.  Got  men  together, 
and  led  them. 

"A  little  slow  to  get  started.  There  was  the  trou 
ble."  Her  voice  suddenly  dropped  to  an  unintelligi 
ble  muttering,  something  about  "lock  barn  door 
.  .  .  horse  stolen.  Too  late,  you  see!  Too 
awful  late!" 

North  filled  his  lungs.  His  right  hand  had  sud 
denly  shut  upon  the  woman's  shoulder,  gripping  with 
a  painful  and  even  a  bruising  force. 

"Don't  say  it,"  he  demanded.  In  his  eyes  glared 
such  a  strangeness,  such  a  fanatical  determination 
as  to  frighten  her.  "Not  too  late,"  he  went  on. 
"Can't  be.  It  mustn't  be.  I  won't  have  that." 


CHAPTER  II 

Hurt 

OUIETLY,  with  a  curious  quiet,  Winifred  ac 
cepted  the  news  about  the  hurt  that  had 
come  to  North.  Mike,  who  had  been  trying 
to  amuse  her  with  his  nonsense,  was  called  aside  by 
Doug  Davis  for  a  bit  of  private  counsel  before  it  was 
concluded  that  it  might  be  best  to  tell  her  everything 
in  order  to  prepare  her  for  the  appearance  of  the 
wounded  wagon  master.  So,  the  report  having  been 
made  by  Davis,  as  tactfully  as  possible,  she  at  once 
fixed  her  preoccupied  gaze  upon  the  sun-browned 
face  of  the  companionable  Mike.  Her  expression, 
meanwhile,  was  not  that  of  suffering,  but  of  intense 
thoughtfulness,  as  though  her  faculties  might  have 
been  profoundly  concerned  with  trying  to  decide 
some  question  momentously  significant. 

What  question  it  was  came  out  emphatically  plain 
when  she  summarily  insisted  that  Davis  pencil  a  dis 
patch  for  her.  She  hardly  dictated  the  words,  but 
made  shift  to  give  the  sense  of  what  she  wanted 
said;  and  before  he  had  finished  writing  on  a  leaf  to 
be  torn  later  from  his  note-book,  she  spoke  to  the 
other  man: 

"Mike,  you're  to  put  the  message  on  the  wire  for 
me.  Will  you?" 

She  knew,  as  did  the  whole  wagon-camp,  that  the 

304 


Hurt  305 

Indian  raids  had  extended  far  along  the  Platte  valley, 
and  that  the  Overland  telegraph  line  had  been  torn 
down  in  many  places.  Now,  however,  soldier  de 
tails  had  been  ordered  out  to  assist  in  the  work  of 
reconstruction,  to  reset  poles  and  string  wire,  so 
that  government  messages  might  not  long  be  de 
layed.  For  prudential  reasons  the  augmented  squads 
of  regular  line-men  worked  at  night,  with  horses 
saddled  and  picketed,  ready  to  take  flight  at  the 
first  alarm. 

The  commission  which  Winifred  had  assigned  to 
One-Eyed  Mike  was  one  which  a  man  could  scarcely 
be  blamed  for  not  wanting  to  undertake.  But  the 
good-natured  fellow  didn't  like  to  decline;  he  even 
decided  not  to  decline — all  at  once,  but  to  work 
around,  by  degrees,  to  his  refusal,  and  tell  why,  and 
make  it  look  reasonable.  He  began  by  criticising 
the  telegram,  as  if  everything  depended  upon  the 
wording  of  the  message. 

"It  ain't  so,"  he  declared,  "you  know  it  ain't  so 
that  Doc  North  is  bad  hurt.  Been  into  an  Injun 
bobble  of  some  kind  or  other;  that's  so.  But  bad? 
How  can  you  say  bad,  and  him  riding  twenty  miles 
and  more,  back  from  Marvin's  ranch?  Now,  a  man 
who's  messed  up  bad,  could  he  ride  that  far?  I  ask 
you,  rna'am,  could  he,  or  not?" 

In  the  shade  of  the  improvised  awning,  the  gray 
wagon-sheet  which  sometimes  caught  a  torpid  whiff 
of  breeze  and  languidly  bulged  with  it,  Winifred  lay 
with  head  and  shoulders  raised — first  by  her  heavy 
Texas  saddle,  and  next  by  three  corpulent  pillows 
lent  by  immigrant  families.  And  while  Mike  stood, 
objecting  to  her  telegram,  she  gave  him  such  a  look. 


306  Wine  o   the  Winds 

Not  the  pouting  look  of  a  sick  girl,  not  that  at  all; 
but  a  look  of  crushing  scorn. 

"Listen  to  him!"  she  reproached.  "That's  what 
he's  like.  Just  too  mean  and  moral  for  anything. 
Deuce  take  you,  Michael  Moriarty!" 

"That  ain't  my  name,"  he  protested,  and  grinned. 

"I  don't  care.  Let  it  be  any  scoundrelly  name 
you  like.  I  don't  care.  It's  a  hateful  name.  I 
know  it  is.  Must  be." 

"Why  is  it?"  he  blandly  inquired. 

"  What  makes  you  want  to  be  so  moral  ? "  she  asked. 
"You  might  just  as  well  not  be  so  uppity,  and 
righteous,  and  tiresome.  If  we  want  to  say  in  a 
telegram  that  Hal  North  is  badly  hurt,  it's  all  right. 
No  harm  in  that.  And  he  might  be.  Maybe  he  is. 
We  don't  know  that  he  isn't.  Do  we?" 

"Well,  yes,"  Mike  conceded,  and  scratched  him 
self  behind  the  ear.  "He  could  be  worse  hurt  than 
we  ...  that's  so.  But  that  ain't  the  point. 
The  point  is  that  it's  going  to  be  ticklish  business  to 
get  in  amongst  the  line-men  at  night.  You  know, 
don't  you,  what  happened  to  my  folks  when  they 
moved  out  West?" 

"Never  mind  that!"  the  girl  protested,  with  her 
dark  eyes  impatiently  brightening. 

"Got  their  house  and  barn  blowed  away  in  a 
cyclone,"  Mike  imperturbably  went  on.  "That's 
what  happened.  And  they  didn't  like  it.  But  Pap 
tried  to  look  at  it  reasonable.  Said  he  always  did 
like  ventilation;  and  that  country,  down  there  in 
Kansas,  had  plenty  of  it,  plenty  of  ventilation,  but 
he  reckoned  the  thing  was  just  a  leetle  bit  overdone. 
And  same,  here,  Winnie;  it's  the  same  with  this 


Hurt  307 

business.  If  they  see  me  moving  in  the  dark,  and 
mistake  me  for  an  Injun;  if  that  happens,  and  I  get 
too  much  lead  in  my  carcass,  I  have  a  feeling  that  I 
won't  care  for  the  ventilation.  It's  a  prejudice  I  got. 
I  sure  am  ashamed  of  it,  and  try  to  get  rid  of  it,  but 
can't.  Seems  to  be  inherited  from  my  folks." 

"Quit,  Mike,"  the  girl  implored.  "Don't  make 
me  laugh.  It  hurts  me  to  laugh."  Her  smile  was  of 
course  what  he  had  been  after;  and  the  merry  look 
in  her  face  so  requited  him  for  his  joke;  he  was  so 
bribed  by  this  appreciation  that  he  could  not  longer 
stand  out  against  her  caprice.  All  the  men,  indeed, 
felt  that  she  must  be  humoured  in  her  every  whim; 
hence  Mike  did  precisely  what  he  had  believed  he 
wouldn't  do:  he  took  the  message,  accepted  money 
for  sending  it,  and  undertook  to  "put  it  on  the  wire," 
as  soon  as  the  line  should  be  open. 


CHAPTER  III 

Fates  Cockpit 

A"  •  AHE  welcome  North  received,  once  he  stood 
I  with  Winifred's  hand  firmly  pressed  in  his, 

JL    was  really  absurd,  almost  laughable. 

"Go  'way!"  she  cried  out,  frowning,  and  pouting, 
and  beginning  to  scold.  "I  don't  want  you  here. 
Not  yet.  It's  mean  of  you  to  come  so  quick." 

Something  dropped  as  she  spoke.  The  hand- 
mirror,  by  means  of  which  she  had  been  testing  the 
effect  of  a  lace-befrilled  cap,  crashed  heedlessly  to  the 
ground,  shattering  there  into  a  hard,  bright  glitter  of 
glass  fragments. 

"You  spoil  everything,"  she  declared.  "I  don't 
even  get  the  ribbons  tied,  and  here  you  come!  You 
break  right  in.  Is  that  a  nice  way  to  act?  You 
might  know  a  girl  would  want  time  to  get  fixed  up  a 
little." 

"Vain  thing!''  he  accused,  and  she  had  to  laugh, 
despite  the  distress  it  caused  her  wound;  and  once  the 
wincing  quivers  had  died  out  of  her  face,  she  smiled 
again,  triumphantly  declaring: 

"Made  it  myself,  this  cap.  All  myself.  The 
women  laugh  at  me;  they  say  I  sew  like  a  man.  It's 
pretty,  though.  You  must  tell  me  it  is.  One  of  the 
girls  gave  me  the  lace  and  the  linen,  and  I  had  the 
ribbons.  Mrs.  Ross  pressed  them  for  me.  They 

308 


Fates  Cockpit  309 

*$> " 
don't  belong,  not  really.     I  mean,  I  should  have 

dainty  white  ribbons.  Only  red.  you  see,  is  such  a 
jolly  colour!" 

"And  terrible,"  said  North. 

"Where's  Mike ? "  she  asked.  " Do  call  him  back. 
He's  funny,  Mike  is.  He  must  tell  you  the  story 
about  mule  nature.  It  will  make  you  laugh,  that 


one." 


"  Don't  plague  me,  Winnie.  I  must  see  how  badly 
you've  been  hurt." 

"  You  sha'n't.  Not  now — not  while  you  have  such 
a  solemn  face.  There,  that's  better.  You  smile, 
but  it's  such  a  cripple  of  a  smile !  Sit  down  by  me. 
Talk.  Begin  now.  Let  me  hear  all  about  it,  what 
kind  of  mess  you've  been  into,  what  ails  your  shoul 
der,  and  everything." 

But  he  did  not  talk.  Having  seated  himself  close 
beside  her,  he  seemed  strangely  empty  of  words, 
and  for  a  long  while  went  on  mutely  gazing  at  her. 

It  was  too  much  to  bear,  this  strange,  still  look  of 
his.  Winnie  had  to  turn  her  eyes  away  from  him; 
but  afterward  they  once  more  sought  his  face,  while 
she  declared  with  a  note  of  exultation  creeping  into 
her  voice: 

"You  did  get  there — in  time.  Didn't  you?" 
He  nodded,  and  she  went  on,  with  the  same  earnest 
tone  of  felicitation:  "I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't. 
You  went,  and  came;  it's  your  own  dear  self  back 
again!  And  this,"  she  added,  after  a  long  interval 
of  meditation,  "  this,  maybe,  will  make  it  easier  for 
me  to  quit.  I've  been  trying  hard  to  think  it  would. 
But — I  don't  know.  A  girl — like  me — does  so  love 
to  live.  Only  now,  of  course,  there's  lead  in  me. 


310  Wine  tf  the  Winds 

That's  how  it  is:  lead,  and  you  can't  get  it  out. 
Nobody  can.  So,  you  see,  it  won't  be  long  till  I 
shall  have  to  be  cashing  in,  the  same  as  poor  Andy 
did,  and  poor  little  Matt." 

"Andy!"  North  exclaimed.     "Matt,  too?" 

"What,  you  haven't  heard?" 

Winifred's  bluish  eyelids  quivered  shut,  and  re 
mained  so  for  a  time.  Her  hands,  meanwhile,  had 
clenched  themselves  into  rigid  fists.  Long  minutes 
passed  before  she  finally  whispered: 

"A  deep  grave  they  have,  deep;  a  wagon-tire 
marks  the  place.  Deep,  deep,"  she  repeated.  "Yes, 
with  logs  across  it,  to  keep  the  wolves  out." 

Her  manner  brightened  at  once,  as  though  she  had 
quite  made  up  her  mind  not  to  be  sad;  and  when  she 
saw  Mrs.  Ross  bringing  her  something  hot  in  a  bowl, 
she  imagined  that  she  would  like  it;  but,  after  all, 
she  could  scarcely  do  more  than  bring  herself  to  taste 
the  soup. 

"Excuse  me,  I  can't,"  she  apologized.  "It's 
horrid,  I  know  it  is;  but  then,  Mrs.  Ross  doesn't 
mind,  she  puts  up  with  me.  Betsy  Ross  is  her  name, 
just  as  if  she  had  made  the  first  flag.  She  likes  me, 
she  takes  care  of  me,  she  knows  just  how  to  dress  a 
wound." 

"Now,  Winnie,"  North  admonished.  "You  had 
better  not  talk  any  more.  Later,  perhaps,  after 
you've  rested  awhile." 

"Not  talk?  But  I  want  to — and  listen.  I  do  so 
want  to  hear  how  you  got  through.  But  my  head 
aches,  I  lose  the  thread;  and  if  I  talk  I  get  mixed  up, 
and  only  keep  on  saying  the  same  thing  over  and 
over.  You  tell  him,  Mrs.  Ross;  tell  him  everything." 


'"Not  yet.     It's  mean  of  you  to  come  so  quick.'" 


Fates  Cockpit  311 

"But  I've  already  told." 

"Have  you?  Yes,  yes;  of  course,  but  I.  ... 
That's  how  I  am;  I  don't  remember." 

"Never  mind,  Winnie.  If  you  quiet  down,  and 
sleep  awhile,  your  head  will  be  sure  to  feel  better." 

North,  himself,  might  be  as  giddy-headed  as  she, 
but  he  spoke  with  the  quieting  way  he  had,  and  after 
ward  asked  professionally: 

"When  has  the  dressing  been  changed?" 

A  fresh  one,  it  appeared,  had  been  put  on  but  a 
short  time  before;  and  seeing  with  what  skill  the  ban 
dages  had  been  adjusted,  North  concluded  not  to 
disturb  them  for  the  present,  but  to  wait  until 
Winifred,  now  too  much  spent  with  pain  and  excite 
ment,  should  be  in  better  condition  to  withstand  the 
probing  examination  which  might  later  be  deemed 
necessary.  As  his  trained  eye,  meanwhile,  kept 
jealous  watch  of  the  lace  at  her  throat  twitching  in 
time  to  the  throb  of  an  artery,  he  could  scarcely  have 
been  in  the  least  reassured  by  the  tell-tale  flightiness 
of  a  pulse  feverishly  irregular. 

"Don't  sit  like  that,  so  awfully  still;  talk,"  the 
girl  insisted.  "Begin,  now;  talk  away,  both  of  you. 
I  won't  listen  much,  I  can't;  but  I  do  so  like  to  hear 
friendly  voices  talking!" 

The  serious  eyes  of  Mrs.  Ross  met  those  of  Doctor 
North  in  mute  questioning;  and  when  he  had  nodded 
his  assent  she  drew  near  to  him  to  reseat  herself  upon 
the  ground.  Her  full  skirt  flared  out  as  she  settled 
into  place,  and  next  collapsed  into  limp  folds.  She 
went  on  speaking  to  him  in  a  subdued  voice,  pur 
posely  monotonous. 

All  at  once  Winifred  raised  her  head,  starting  up 


312  Wine  o*  the  Winds 

suddenly,  her  face  drawn  with  the  pained  bewilder 
ment  of  one  who  has  been  restlessly  dozing.  "Don't 
whisper,"  she  urged.  "It's  bad,  whispering  is.  I 
can't  bear  it."  In  the  abused  tone  of  a  sick  child  she 
demanded  a  drink  of  water,  but  when  the  cup  had 
been  raised  to  her  blanched,  dry  lips,  she  pushed  it 
away,  waving  it  aside  as  of  no  consequence. 

Something  remarkable  seemed  to  have  caught  her 
eye.  She  was  looking  at  North;  in  astonished  won 
der  she  was  staring  at  him.  By  and  by  she  smiled 
a  little,  with  an  imploring  hopefulness;  but  her  mouth 
quivered  as  she  timorously  inquired: 

"Hal?  Is  it  you,  really?  You're  there,  I  see 
you,  I  expect  you  to  float  away,  and — you  don't. 
You  stay.  This  time  you  do.  It  must  be,  then, 
that  you've  come  back.  Have  you?  Honestly?" 

She  had  to  hear  him  and  to  touch  him  to  be  con 
vinced  that  it  was  truly  himself,  and  not  merely  an 
other  of  those  tantalizing  fantasies  which  come  to 
fevered  brains.  "  Your  very  self! "  she  cried  out  with 
abiding  belief.  "I  was  so  afraid  it  wouldn't  be. 
Sometimes  it's  not  you  at  all;  it's  just  nothing.  But 
now.  .  .  ."  She  smiled  again.  "Oo,  and  how 
I  wish  I  could  laugh.  I  want  to;  I'm  that  glad. 
Only  I  can't  laugh;  that's  the  trouble.  I  can't,  Hal, 
because  it  hurts."  There  was  something  shyly 
mischievous  and  merry  in  her  face  as  she  went  on: 
"You  must  tell  him,  Betsy  Ross,  all  about  what 
we've  been  into.  Tell  him,  tell  him;  go  right  ahead. 
All  about  my  great  'doings.  Paint  me  up  showy, 
make  me  out  something  wonderful.  Will  you?" 

Her  smile  died  out  suddenly,  to  be  followed  by  a 
frightened  and  sorry  look.  "I  mustn't,"  she  stam- 


Fate's  Cockpit  313 

mered,  "mustn't  talk  like  this.  It's  wrong  to  be 
gay  and  forget  so  soon  about  the  dear  boys  we've 
buried.  Andy,  you  know,  is  dead.  Little  Matt  is 
dead.  They  have  a  deep  grave.  They  were  always 
together,  and  they  are  buried  together." 

"Oh,  Winnie,  Winnie,  if  you  please  wouldn't !  Not 
now!"  North  spoke  to  her  thus,  gently  and  quietly, 
and  bade  her  rest  a  little,  if  she  could. 

"Just  one  thing,"  she  implored.  "Do  let  me  tell 
it;  let  me,  and  then  maybe  it  won't  be  coming  back 
so  much  in  my  sleep.  It's  about  Matt — poor  little 
Matt,  and  his  letter.  From  one  of  his  sweethearts. 
He  was  always  bragging,  you  know,  about  his  sweet 
hearts.  Andy  scolded  him,  and  he  didn't  care,  he 
bragged  all  the  same.  When  he  died  he  had  the 
letter  in  his  hand.  Blood  on  it,  and  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  want  it  spoiled  like  that.  I  tried  to  clean 
it,  but — hum — that's  not  it.  How  I  do  muddle 
everything  when  I  talk!  They  buried  it  with  him, 
that  miserable  little  letter — from  a  sweetheart  of 
his.  He  tried  to  make  out  (that's  what  I'm  getting 
at)  tried  to  make  out  that  it  had  come  from  a  sweet 
heart.  And — you  know — he  never  had  one.  That's 
what  hurts.  Little  Matt  .  .  .  so  queer-looking, 
and  hunchbacked  .  .  .  little  Matt  never  had 
a  sweetheart.  I  kissed  him,  though.  I  did,  Hal. 
I  even  wanted  to  make  love  to  him.  But  couldn't. 
How  could  I,  when  we  were  so  busy  shooting  our 
shells  away?  He  had  lead  in  him.  And  then,  after 
the  last  rush  the  Indians  made,  I  saw  they  had  put 
an  arrow  through  his  heart." 

In  facing  the  inevitable,  how  paltry  we  feel,  and 


314  Wine  o    the  Winds 

yet  how  desperate!  North  even  had  a  queer  notion 
that  what  Winnie  had  been  saying  was  merely  a 
foreboding  of  what  had  not  yet  happened  but  must 
happen,  unless  he  could  contrive,  somehow,  to  outwit 
destiny.  So,  as  the  girl  talked  of  Andy  and  of  Matt, 
North  kept  trying  to  arrange  things  differently,  to 
alter  the  course  of  fate.  But  he  knew,  of  course, 
that  he  could  do  nothing  about  that.  What  must 
be,  will  be;  and  what's  done  is  done. 

Sometimes  he  caught  himself  up  sharply.  "I 
listen  with  a  divided  mind;  maybe  I  have  missed 
some  of  it."  A  sort  of  craven  triumph  came  to  him 
with  the  thought  that  he  might,  perhaps,  escape  a 
little  of  the  intolerable  truth.  He  even  said  aloud: 
"Enough.  I've  heard  enough." 

All  at  once  tormenting  anger  flamed  up  in  him,  a 
rage  of  helplessness.  He  told  himself:  "I  thought 
it  safer  here.  I  sent  her  back.  And  now,  see!" 

His  teeth  gritted.  A  passion  to  rend  and  strike 
and  curse  must  have  found  expression  of  some  sort, 
if  he  had  not  suddenly  given  way  to  a  flood  of  pity. 
He  said  in  the  after  years  how  strange  it  was  that  his 
eye  should  have  been  drawn  to  anything  so  trifling 
as  some  crumpled  leaves.  He  looked  at  them  closely. 
They  were  mullein  leaves,  and  he  understood  at 
once  that  Winnie  had  been  rubbing  her  cheeks 
with  them  in  order  that  their  weedy  roughness 
might,  perhaps,  bring  back  a  little  colour  into  her 
sallow  face. 

Oh,  the  sweet  vanity!  She  with  her  foolish  cap 
and  her  mullein  leaves ! 

"You,  Winnie,"  he  began,  but  knew  that  he  was 
not  going  to  say  what  he  wanted  to  say,  "you  put 


Fates  Cockpit 

up  a  fight — you,  and  those  two  men.  A  good  fight, 
eh?  You  couldn't  help  it." 

The  girl,  having  caught  up  one  of  his  phrases,  de 
clared  with  a  flash  of  the  old  clear  brightness  in  her 
eyes: 

"  It  was  a  good  fight.  Only  Andy,  somehow,  kept 
grieving  about  it.  He'd  been  hit;  but  it  wasn't  that, 
understand — not  that  making  him  whine  and  grum 
ble  so.  'I  was  going  back,'  he'd  say.  'I  got  a  load 
of  presents,  and  everything;  and  now  see  what's 
up.'  Sometimes  he'd  talk  about  his  family,  his  little 
people.  The  tribe  had  been  taking  care  of  the  chil 
dren  and  their  mother;  he  was  sure  of  that,  because 
Indians  aren't  selfish,  they  won't  have  poverty 
among  them.  It's  their  way:  they  share  what  they 
have.  .  .  .  And  now  to  be  fighting  them!  Tm 
a  whelp,'  he'd  say.  Tm  a  scoundrel.  My  own 
people,  and  I'm  fighting  them!'  Most  of  all  he'd 
talk  about  his  wife,  Singing  Thrush.  He  wanted 
to  make  things  right  with  her  if  he  could — to  let 
her  see  that  she  hadn't  been  forgotten.  I  hoped  he 
would  shut  up.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  hardly,  and  kept 
wishing  we  had  Mike  along  with  us;  for  he'd  joke, 
be  sure  to — he'd  joke  and  sing  and  carry  on,  and 
I  knew  we'd  have  to  laugh  if  Mike  was  there.  I 
wanted  to  laugh.  I  didn't  want  to  feel  bad  when  I 
had  my  fighting  to  do.  By  and  by  I  told  Andy  so; 
and  Matt  told  him.  But,  somehow,  he  couldn't 
quit  talking.  What  bothered  him  most  was  that 
maybe  his  wagon,  and  everything  in  it,  wouldn't 
be  taken  to  his  wife.  I  said  he  needn't  worry.  Hal 
North  would  look  after  that.  Matt  and  I  both  told 
him  so,  and  he  knew  it  himself.  But  sometimes  he 


316  Wine  0'  the  Winds 

got  to  doubting;  for  maybe  you  wouldn't  get  back. 
And  then  what  ?  So  he  went  on,  till  a  body  got  sick 
of  hearing  it.  He  talked  while  he  fought.  He  kept 
shooting — every  shot  a  sorrow  and  a  grief  to  him! 
He  was  bleeding,  but  he  kept  telling  us  that  they  were 
not  bad  people,  not  at  all  bad  people,  his  Indians. 
It  was  only  that  they  had  been  bullied  so  much, 
and  put  upon,  and  driven  to  desperation.  The  buf 
falo  is  vanishing;  and  they  won't  know  how  to  live, 
he  said,  without  the  buffalo.  It  means  starvation. 
They  fight,  they  burn,  they  destroy;  they  want  to 
clear  the  great  plains  of  all  our  race.  'Quit  your 
gabble/  Matt  would  tell  him.  '  Drop  it.  What's 
the  good  of  hitting  it  up  like  that  ?'  But  Andy 
didn't  stop.  Only  when  tearing  sounds  got  into  his 
throat,  and  the  gasp  and  strangle  of  death — only 
then  he  changed  his  tune.  Water!  He  wanted 
water.  We  ought  to  give  him  a  drink.  Why  didn't 
we?  Acted  as  if  we  had  plenty  of  water,  and  were 
meanly  keeping  it  from  him.  I  couldn't  quite  make 
out  what  he  muttered  at  the  last — something,  I 
believe,  about  calico,  ribbon,  beads.  All  for  her. 
For  his  wife,  Singing  Thrush.  Yes,  and  she  must 
have  them.  Mustn't  she?  Don't  you  say  so?" 

"Of  course  she  must,"  North  agreed.     "And  shall 
have  them,  Winnie — shall,  if  I  can  get  them  to  her." 


CHAPTER    IV 

The  Kiss 

FROM  the  moment  of  first  talking  with  Harry 
North,  after  his  return,  Mrs.  Ross  could  not 
help  being  distressed  by  what  she  had  di 
vined.  She  even  feared  that  the  heat,  the  long  ride, 
the  wound,  the  repeated  shocks  of  bad  news  might 
prove  altogether  too  much  for  him.  He  seemed 
chilled,  despite  the  prairie's  stupefying  sultriness; 
and  while  the  wounded  girl  talked  to  him  he  had 
begun  quivering  all  over. 

As  soon  as  she  fell  into  a  doze  he  got  up,  laboured 
to  his  feet,  and  steadied  himself  against  the  awning- 
pole.  But  how  he  got  away  from  there,  into  the 
shadow  of  a  wagon,  he  could  never  remember.  Mrs. 
Ross  followed  him  with  a  canteen  which  he  seized 
with  greedy  haste,  after  he  had  sunk  upon  the  ground. 
Only  the  mouth-piece  vexed  him;  it  would  not  let 
him  drink  fast  enough.  He  ended  by  shaking  the 
disc-shaped  vessel,  anxiously  splashing  his  throat 
with  water.  Then  came  forgetfulness. 

His  illness  quickly  passed  into  a  fevered  state 
ever  fluctuating  between  delirium  and  half  conscious 
ness.  Sometimes  there  seemed  to  be  a  number  of 
people  gathered  about  him,  and  he  heard  with  great 
rancour  how  they  went  on  discussing  his  condition, 
as  if  he  were  not  present.  Again  he  would  be  alone 

317 


3i 8  Wine  o9  the  Winds 

in  a  room  with  moving  walls.  Or  was  it  a  room? 
It  could  be  a  tent,  he  thought,  or  a  ship.  He  liked 
the  place,  but  would  like  it  better  if  only  it  didn't 
shake  so  much,  and  if  only  there  could  be  some  good 
way  to  keep  his  enemies  out.  They  would  ask  how 
he  was  getting  on,  and  that  was  done  to  deceive  him. 
He  knew  very  well  that  they  didn't  want  him  to 
get  on. 

While  lying  outdoors  on  a  buffalo  robe  he  would 
see  the  stars  swimming  in  the  sky,  and  when  Mrs. 
Ross  came  to  sit  by  him,  she  had  the  oddest  way  of 
turning  into  someone  else.  Once  she  was  metamor 
phosed  into  a  man  with  reddish  whiskers,  a  meddle 
some  person  who  restrained  him  by  force,  and  sense 
lessly  refused  to  let  him  get  up  and  do  what  he 
wanted  to  do. 

Exhausted  by  efforts  to  get  free,  North  sank  back 
and  slept  for  twelve  hours  at  a  stretch.  The  first 
time  that  he  returned  to  complete  consciousness  was 
toward  evening,  on  the  second  day  after  rejoining 
the  wagon-train.  By  the  odour  of  camp-fire  smoke 
he  knew  the  caravan  had  corralled  for  the  night; 
but  he  could  not  understand  the  good  moist  fragrance 
coming  up  from  the  ground  all  about  the  place 
where  he  lay.  Drops  quivered  on  grass-blades,  many 
shower  drops  brightened  into  liquid  jewels  by  the 
westering  sun. 

"Has  it  rained?"  he  inquired  of  a  tall  man  looking 
down  at  him. 

"Hullo,  he's  come  to!"  the  watcher  exclaimed. 
And  he  asked  with  surprised  elation:  "Do  you 
know  me?" 

"Marvin,"  the  injured  man  replied,  sitting  up  at 


The  Kiss  319 

once.  "And  how's  the  baby?"  he  inquired.  As  he 
spoke  he  caught  sight  of  spectacled  eyes  looking  at 
him  with  concentrated  interest. 

"This,"  the  visitor  added,  as  he  indicated  the 
short  man  of  reddish  beard  and  glasses,  "is  Doctor 
Lunn.  Belongs  to  a  Mormon  train.  As  soon  as  he 
finished  looking  over  the  sick  folks  at  my  place  I 
thought  it  mightn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  have  him  come 
with  me  to  look  you  up." 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  North  articulated,  and  pressed 
the  hand  of  the  physician.  "And  how  is  it  with  her, 
Doctor  Lunn?  Our  other  patient — have  you  seen 
her?" 

With  a  jerky  mannerism  of  speech,  and  a  foreign 
accent — Swedish  perhaps — the  practitioner  said: 

"The  travel  you  must  quit.  You  could,  maybe, 
lay  up  at  Julesburg.  That's  it.  You  know,  I  be 
lieve,  how  it  should  not  yet  be  correct — for  a  wound 
like  what  you  got — so  much  jouncing  in  a  wagon. 
Another  thing  for  caution :  that  your  fever  should  not 
run  himself  into  brain  fever.  Eh,  you  comprehend 
me?" 

With  a  look  at  once  irritated  and  beseeching,  North 
said: 

"Tell  me,  please,  about  Miss  Barton.  Have  you 
dressed  her  wound?" 

Marvin  and  Lunn  exchanged  glances;  then  the 
doctor  wiped  his  spectacles  with  a  blue  handkerchief 
speckled  with  white  dots. 

"Have  you?"  North  insisted. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Ross  appeared.  The 
physician  said  to  her,  as  he  put  on  his  spectacles 
and  rubbed  his  palms  together: 


320  Wine  o    the  Winds 

"He's  conscious.  The  cooling  off  of  the  air,  it 
appears  .  .  and  the  hail  falling  .  .  .  very 
good,  very  good." 

"If  only  she  wouldn't  keep  asking  for  him!"  Mrs. 
Ross  blurted  out.  "What's  one  to  do?  But  he 
mustn't  go  to  her,  I  suppose." 

Instantly  North  got  to  his  feet.  Tottering  a 
little  at  first,  he  walked  away  from  the  men.  "Winnie, 
Winnie,"  he  kept  saying  as  he  went.  "Where  are 
you?" 

Mrs.  Ross  conducted  him  to  where  she  lay,  and 
he  was  presently  to  see  that  the  rainy  afternoon,  with 
its  fierce  thunder  showers  and  rattles  of  hail,  had  been 
beneficial  to  her,  as  to  him.  Wet  compresses  had 
also  helped  to  keep  her  fever  down.  But  now,  as  the 
sunset  hour  came  on,  even  though  the  air  remained 
cool  and  tranquil,  her  restlessness  indicated  a  rising 
temperature.  Lunn  had  given  it  as  his  opinion, 
after  making  a  long  examination  in  the  forenoon, 
that  nothing  remained  to  be  done  for  her  except 
to  make  her  as  comfortable  as  possible. 

Although  she  had  her  quiet  intervals,  almost  free 
from  pain,  and  although  there  were  periods  when 
her  mind  came  clear  for  lucid  thinking,  the  time  grew 
more  and  more  prolonged  when  she  strove  against 
delirium,  exerting  herself  to  keep  down  the  troubling 
visions. 

"They  annoy  a  body  so!"  North  heard  her  com 
plaining,  as  he  seated  himself,  unrecognized,  beside 
her  pillow.  "My  head  goes  on  getting  mussed  up 
inside,  and  flighty,  and  full  of  nightmarish  nonsense." 

In  one  of  her  vagaries  she  seemed  to  talk  with  her 
mother,  discussing  the  important  point  of  how  some 


The  Kiss  321 

new  aprons  should  be  made;  and  again  she  joked 
and  disputed  with  her  father.  "If  you  growl  and 
grumble  a-plenty  about  not  being  sick,"  she  ironic 
ally  informed  him,  "  that  is  surely  going  to  cure  you." 

Once  she  said  to  Mrs.  Ross:  "I  wish  I  could  keep 
awake.  The  craziness  don't  bother  so  much  if  I 
keep  awake." 

Even  when  her  eyes  remained  open  there  was  one 
vision  in  particular  that  seemed  to  come  back  many 
times.  She  listened  to  inaudible  speech;  she  gazed 
at  an  invisible  presence,  and  often  talked  to  someone 
whom  neither  Mrs.  Ross  nor  Doctor  North  could  see. 
But  let  him  smooth  her  forehead  with  his  hand,  or 
put  on  another  wet  towel,  and  the  phantom  visitor 
would  depart. 

With  a  cajoling  smile  Winifred  presently  ob 
served: 

"She's  not  there — not  really.  Is  she?  You  don't 
see  anything?  No,  of  course,  because  it's  only  my 
silly  head  up  to  its  silly  tricks  again."  And  yet  a 
little  while  later  she  might  address  vacancy  with  fret 
ful  irritation:  "So,  here  you  are  again!  Goodness 
knows  how  you  manage  it.  A  long  ways  to  travel, 
but,  apparently.  .  .  .  Well,  and  how  are  the 
children?  Is  Connie  well?  Did  Arthur  get  home 
all  right?" 

After  the  towel  compress  for  her  head  had  been  wet 
with  vinegar  to  see  whether  that  might  not  prove 
more  efficacious  than  water,  the  girl  presently  ex 
claimed,  as  one  who  had  made  an  interesting  dis 
covery: 

"That's  queer;  that's  awfully  queer!  How  is  it 
that  there's  two  of  me?  Twins.  How  ridiculous 


322  Wine  o    the  Winds 

to  be  twins!  We're  a  lot  different,  though,  in  some 
ways.  That  me,  over  there,  is  such  a  sensible  girl, 
and  this  me — foo! — is  such  a  goose!  She  talks,  that 
one  does;  I  hear  her,  and  it's  very  reasonable  talk. 
I  mustn't  grieve  for  Andy — that's  what  she  says.  I 
mustn't,  because  he  didn't  belong  to  any  race  but 
our  race,  and  he  couldn't  ever  be  happy  living  with 
the  brown  people.  He  loves  them,  but  he  ran  away 
from  them.  He  was  coming  back  with  presents,  but 
he  would  be  restless  and  discontented.  Would  run 
away  again,  most  likely.  W7hy  should  he  have 
fought  as  he  did,  if  he  really  belonged  to  them? 
Then  the  goose  (that's  the  other  me),  she  says  he 
would,  too,  have  been  happy  with  the  brown  people. 
He  loved  them — his  wife,  Singing  Thrush,  and  his 
little  folks.  Then,  why  not  be  happy?  And  the 
other,  the  sensible  me,  speaks  up:  'You  talk  like 
that  because  you  try  to  think  there  is  someone  would 
be  happy  with  you  if  you  were  his  wife.  But  it 
isn't  so.  He  likes  you.  His  cool  gray  eyes  can  have 
warmth  in  them  when  he  looks  at  you,  because  he 
likes  you.  But  love?  That's  another  thing.  It's 
she,  the  children's  aunt,  he  really  loves.  And  can't 
you  see,  you  great  silly,  that  you  hardly  belong  to 
the  same  race  with  him?  You  never,  never  in  this 
world  could  make  him  happy.  No,  not  even  if  he 
loved  you  as  much  as  Andy  loved  his  Singing  Thrush.' 
Yet  the  poor  goose  argues  still  that  she  would  surely 
know  how  to  make  him  happy,  because  she  loves  him. 
Only,  of  course,  it's  not  enough  to  love;  she  knows 
it  isn't;  and  she  only  goes  on  arguing,  because  it's 
so  hard  to  give  up." 

After  a  time,  when  these  grotesqueries  of  mind  had 


The  Kiss  323 

melted  away,  and  left  in  their  wake  a  clean  mood  of 
fresh  rationality,  Winnie  asked: 

"What  have  I  been  saying?  A  lot  of  absurd  stuff, 
was  it?  If  it  was  love  talk  and  babble,  don't  you 
believe  it,  Hal.  What's  more,  you  shouldn't  listen. 
It's  wrong  to  listen — hateful  and  mean,  so  it  is. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

But  he  said  with  great  gentleness  and  the  look  in 
his  eyes  which  she  longed  to  see: 

"Maybe,  Winnie — after  all — it's  nothing  I 
shouldn't  have  heard.  For  it  has  reminded  me  of 
what  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you.  Don't  you  remember 
that  when  I  left  I  promised  to  tell  you  something? 
Well,  it  is  this:  that  you  have  helped,  more  than  you 
can  ever  know,  in  giving  me  courage  to  live,  to  face 
life,  to  win  back  my  confidence  in  myself  and  in  the 
work  I  am  most  fit  to  do." 

The  girl  could  not  hearken  to  this,  for  her  attention 
had  wandered.  She  had  begun  to  talk  once  more 
with  the  invisible  someone. 

"^J"  Don't  have  too  much  blame  for  me,"  she  was 
imploring.  "Don't  be  scornful.  I've  loved  him; 
that's  so.  I've  loved,  and  laughed,  and  sung,  and 
lived  for  him;  I've  lied  to  get  him  from  you.  But — 
no  good.  He's  too  staunch,  too  loyal,  too  full  of 
you!' 

All  at  once  defiance  gleamed  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
shook  a  finger  at  the  phantom  presence: 

"  You're  proud;  you  put  on  airs.  But  just  wait. 
You'll  see.  I  have  good  looks,  the  same  as  you.  I 
have  a  light  heart  and  some  nice  ways,  and  he's 
going  to  love  me  as  much — as  much — yes,  and  more 
than  he  loves  you.  Don't  think  he  will  ever  come 


324  Wine  (?  the  Winds 

back  to  you.  I'll  lie;  I'll  tell  stories  about  you  and 
Victor;  I'll  make  him  believe  what  I  want  him  to 
believe.  For  he's  a  man;  and  they're  all  blind,  men 
are.  He  won't  be  able  to  see  that  you've  always 
loved  him,  and  always  must!" 

Suddenly  she  sighed,  and  sobbed,  and  fell  a-crying 
like  a  little  girl;  she  shook  her  head,  and  the  tears 
flashed  yellow  in  the  golden  sunset.  Other  drops 
kept  coming  and  running  down  until  her  cheeks  were 
all  wet  with  them. 

"I  have  to  die,"  she  was  saying,  "because  I  am 
hurt.  So  you  see,  I'm  not  the  one — you're  the  one 
who  is  to  have  him.  That's  why  I  sent  for  you. 
The  men  repairing  the  telegraph  line  took  the 
message.  I  paid  them,  and  they  took  it.  Forgive 
me.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you  would  come.  If 
you  loved  him,  you  would.  But  I  didn't  want  you 
to.  I  hoped  you  wouldn't.  There  was  Victor. 

You  could  have  Victor And  I,  if  you  didn't 

come But  it  can't  be.     I'm  hurt  too  much. 

The  sun  will  go  out.     And  I  have  always  loved  the 

sun! How  can  gray  eyes  have  so  much  light  ini 

them?  They  are  the  sun.  I  go  alone,  into  the  dark,' 
because  I  am  hurt.  But  O,  I  have  loved  him!  I 
have  loved  no  other  man  than  him." 

As  she  spoke  Harry  North  bowed  down  over  her, 
and  kissed  her.  • 

The  sun  had  gone  down. 

She  was  not  to  know  it,  but  as  the  afternoon  faded, 
and  evening  fell,  oblivion  returned  to  Harry  North, 
so  that  he  would  not  learn  for  many  days  to  come 
that  Winifred  had  died.  This  new  prostration  of 
his,  long  enduring,  was  one  which  muddled  time  and 


The  Kiss  325 

the  sequence  of  events.  He  could  not  tell  whether 
it  was  Mrs.  Ross  or  his  mother  who  was  attending 
him  in  a  prairie  abode,  a  dug-out  of  one  room,  with  a 
muslin  ceiling  cloth.  There  were  times  when  he 
seemed  to  distinguish  another  person,  a  young  woman 
reading  in  a  book  with  copper  clasps. 

Often  he  would  say  to  this  one: 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are." 

But  why  didn't  he  know?  He  felt  humiliated  that 
the  nurse,  who  moved  quietly,  spoke  gently,  and  was 
ever  subdued  in  manner,  should  be  one  who  would 
not  allow  herself  to  be  identified.  Her  youth  and 
freshness  pleased  him;  she  knew  how  to  help  him  get 
rid  of  troubling  visions. 

"You're  not  travelling  any  more,"  she  used  to 
assure  him,  when  he  complained  of  the  rough  trail 
and  the  jouncing  of  the  wagon.  "Don't  you  see?" 
she  would  add,  tapping  the  cabin  wall  with  her  hand 
to  show  how  steady  it  was.  "This  is  not  a  wagon 
but  a  house." 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  he  asked;  for  a  contra 
dictory  impression  was  queerly  his  that  she  had  not 
been  here  before,  but  only  now  had  slipped  in  by 
means  of  some  mystifying  trick.  Why  practise  de 
ception  of  that  sort?  Maybe  she  wanted  to  tell 
him  something.  Yet  where  was  the  good  in  telling 
him  that  many  of  the  stars,  but  not  all,  are  inhabited, 
and  that  the  grandmother  of  a  potato  bug  has  no 
soul? 

Was  the  visitor  mocking  at  him?  Was  she?  He 
meant  to  rebuke  her  for  it. 

"But  no,  it's  delirium,"  he  told  himself,  and  felt 
very  clever  to  have  discovered,  all  by  himself,  that 


326  Wine  o'  the  Winds 

his  companion  was  too  well  bred  to  worry  him  with 
any  fantastic  notion  about  a  potato  bug's  soul. 

He  would  scold  her,  all  the  same;  he  would  craftily 
scold,  and  see  by  her  retort  whether  she  had  been 
trying  to  torment  him. 

"  You  blab  nonsense,"  he  declared.  "And  why  do 
you?  Why,  when  someone  is  hurt?" 

He  grew  positive  that  someone  had  been  hurt; 
and  it  troubled  him  greatly  that  he  did  not  know  who 
it  was.  He  struggled  to  get  up  and  run.  He  must 
run  fast,  run  somewhere,  run  until  he  should  find  the 
person  who  had  been  wounded. 

"I  know!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  Winnie.  A  fine, 
brave  spirit,  and  she  needs  me.  I  must  go." 

"No,  Hal,"  a  quieting  voice  answered.  "She 
doesn't  need  you.  Not  any  more — never  any  more." 


CHAPTER  V 

The  Cup  of  Kindness 

TO  FORT  LARAMIE  news  had  been  brought 
by  an  Indian  runner  that  the  daughter  of 
Chief  Spotted  Tail  had  died;  that  the  body 
was  being  conveyed  hither  for  mortuary  rites;  and 
that  the  funeral  party,  including  kinsfolk  and  the 
tribal  dignitary  himself,  had  now  advanced  within 
some  score  of  miles. 

It  was  decided  at  once  that  the  whole  garrison 
should  discreetly  bestir  itself  to  show  respect,  for  the 
sake  of  conciliatory  effect.  Plainly  the  thing  to  do 
was  to  treat  the  coming  of  Spotted  Tail  with  ob 
sequious  respect.  For  he  was  a  man  of  high  au 
thority  among  his  people,  one  of  those  supreme  in 
council  among  the  leaders  of  the  great  Sioux  nation. 

Hence,  the  military  commander  sent  forth  an  am 
bulance  to  serve  as  hearse,  and  with  it  went  a  whole 
troop  of  cavalry,  in  addition  to  two  pieces  of  artillery, 
a  flag-fluttering  processional,  the  chevrons  of  posti 
lions  vividly  scarlet,  the  underside  of  blue  capes 
flapping  into  flashes  of  brilliant  yellow. 

Next  day,  in  the  burial  plot  near  the  frontier  army 
post,  an  Indian  scaffolding  of  poles  was  raised, 
exactly  like  another  one,  which  long  had  held  a  shape 
firmly  wrapped  and  sealed  in  furry  robes,  reposing 
there  in  sepulchre  open  to  the  sky.  It  was  the  final 

327 


328  Wine  o    the  Winds 

resting  place  of  the  notable  Dakota  leader,  Old 
Smoke,  a  relative  of  Chief  Spotted  Tail. 

A  rank  of  soldiery,  presenting  arms,  formed  a 
spacious  hollow  square  about  the  coffin,  while  Indian 
mourners,  men  and  women,  more  closely  encircled  the 
bier.  According  to  tribal  custom,  the  casket  headed 
east,  reverentially  east,  toward  the  Gates  of  the 
Dawn,  where  the  Sun  Father  shows  his  face  for  the  en 
couragement  of  man,  after  the  gloomy  night  is  done. 

But  this  bleak  day  had  little  enough  to  inspirit 
any  one.  Now  and  again  the  feeble  sunshine  was 
smirched  out  by  tatters  of  storm-cloud  muddily 
racing.  Gusts  of  icy  wind  whistled  through  the 
bleached  grass  of  the  cemetery,  and  the  framework  of 
the  scaffold  shook  with  dreary  shudderings. 

When  the  lidded  coffin  in  its  wrapping  of  buffalo 
robe  had  been  raised  to  its  place  on  the  platform, 
sleet  began  to  fall,  gustily,  harshly,  in  great  rasping 
sweeps  of  frozen  sibilance. 

Before  the  service  had  come  to  an  end  two  persons 
left  the  burial  ground,  a  man  and  a  woman  walking 
side  by  side.  She,  with  a  shawl  enveloping  her  head, 
yielded  confidently  to  his  direction,  and  eagerly 
listened  as  he  said  to  her: 

"I  have  told  you  her  story,  all  of  it,  as  I  had  it 
from  Big  Andy.  Only  he  didn't  know,  I  believe, 
that  the  chiefs  daughter  was  consumptive.  Or 
perhaps  she  wasn't  when  he  saw  her  last.  It  ap 
pears  that  her  father's  people,  the  Brule,  have  kept 
clear  of  the  recent  troubles.  While  the  raids  were 
going  on  and  the  burning  of  stage  stations,  he  has 
held  his  forces  to  the  north  country.  I  am  told  that 
he  restlessly  moved  his  camp  from  place  to  place: 


The  Cup  of  Kindness  329 

to  Big  Horn,  to  Rose  Bud,  to  Tongue  River  and  back 
again  to  Powder  River." 

"It  was  on  Powder  River,  wasn't  it,  where  his 
daughter  died?"  The  young  woman  questioned 
with  abstraction  in  her  tone;  for  her  chief  interest  lay 
in  something  quite  different.  "Tell  me,  Hal,"  she 
added,  "what  you  have  found  out  about  Andy's 
wife.  Did  she  come  with  these  others?  Is  she 
here?  Have  you  seen  Singing  Thrush?" 

"What,  I  haven't  told  you?"  His  hand  linked 
with  that  of  his  companion,  firmly  clasping  hers. 
After  a  time  he  said:  "You  were  right,  my  dear: 
I  need  not  have  feared  to  see  her  and  to  tell  her  of  her 
husband's  death.  He  had  not  forgotten  her.  He 
was  coming  back  to  her.  She  had  given  him  up  as 
lost  out  of  her  life  forever;  but  now  she  sees — as  you 
told  me  she  would — that  so  long  as  he  lived  he  could 
never  be  quite  lost  to  her.  The  gifts  he  was  bring 
ing  are  love  tokens.  She  understands  that,  and  they 
are  her  consolation.  We  are  to  see  her  in  the  morn 
ing.  She  will  come  to  our  wagon,  she  with  her  two 
boys.  The  third  child,  she  told  me,  is  too  young  to 
make  a  long  journey  in  bad  weather,  and  so  was  left 
behind  with  relatives,  in  the  Dakota  village  on 
Powder  River." 

Far  more  impatient  than  the  Indian  mother,  this 
young  woman  wanted  to  go  at  once  to  the  camp 
ground,  where  the  Dakota  tepees  had  been  set  up. 
It  turned  out,  however,  that  when  she  and  Harry 
North  were  conducted  toward  those  cone-shaped 
abodes,  brown  and  obscure  in  the  evening,  with 
smoke  blown  aslant  from  their  tops,  it  was  toward 
the  chief's  lodge  that  they  were  ushered. 


330  Wine  o9  the  Winds 

An  invitation  to  visit  Spotted  Tail  had  been  con 
veyed  by  his  nephew;  and  the  three  went  on  to 
gether,  their  pace  emphasized  by  the  wind-blown 
flutter  of  feminine  garments  and  the  crunch  of  sleet 
under  boot-soles  briskly  stepping. 

From  the  inrush  of  cold  air,  when  the  door-flap  had 
been  raised,  the  tepee  cleared  itself  at  once  of  wood 
smoke;  but  the  cedary  tang  of  it  remained  even  after 
the  warm  vapour  had  gone  swirling  upward,  in  gusty 
haste,  through  the  orifice  amid  the  lodge-pole  tops. 
The  visitors,  as  they  came  in,  scented  an  odour  of 
tanned  robes,  but  the  damp  smell  of  storm  they  them 
selves  brought  here  upon  their  clothing. 

Their  host  did  not  rise  to  give  them  greeting.  In 
the  fur-matted  place,  opposite  the  entrance,  he 
awaited  them,  not  so  much  as  raising  his  eyes;  for 
one  does  not  embarrass  his  guest  with  bold  gazing  or 
inquisitive  looks.  Only  when  those  whom  he  wished 
to  honour  had  been  conducted  about  the  half  circle  of 
the  lodge,  and  so  brought  to  the  chiefly  station,  did  he 
seem  to  become  aware  of  them. 

His  nephew  said  in  English: 

"They  have  come.  The  light  of  the  lodge  shines 
on  them." 

The  chief  arose,  and  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
man  and  of  the  woman;  and  over  the  heads  of  the 
visitors  he  then  raised  his  hands,  graciously  as  a 
father.  Having  made  the  sign  indicating  a  cloud,  he 
pushed  upward  with  his  palms  to  banish  the  cloud, 
as  who  would  say:  "There  has  been  gloom  in  the  sky. 
But  now  you  are  here.  Now  darkness  cannot  stay. 
The  holy  sun  is  shining." 

A  little  back  of  the  chiefs  place,  to  his  right,  a 


The  Cup  of  Kindness  331 

fur-cushioned  mat  had  been  placed  for  each  of  the 
guests,  on  a  bearskin  rug;  and  after  they  had  been 
seated,  all  remained  still  in  the  lodge.  Neither 
looking  at  them,  nor  stirring  in  any  way,  the  tribal 
leader  sat  long  in  meditation. 

Reverential  dignity  manifested  itself  in  everything 
he  did:  in  the  filling  of  the  redstone  pipe;  in  the  light 
ing  of  the  tobacco  with  a  coal  lifted  from  the  fire;  in 
the  touching  of  Holy  Earth  with  the  end  of  the  pipe 
while  drawing  smoke  into  his  mouth,  and  likewise  in 
his  recognition  of  spiritual  forces  by  offering  the  pipe 
to  the  sky,  to  the  north,  the  east,  the  south,  and  the 
west.  The  first  breath  of  vapour  passing  from  his  lips, 
after  he  had  reseated  himself,'was  toward  the  heavens. 

Thus  concluding  this  phase  of  the  ritual,  he  next 
passed  the  calumet  over  his  right  arm,  to  the  visitor, 
for  the  ceremony  to  be  continued. 

"Na,"  said  the  chief,  quite  as  though  the  guest 
were  not  a  white  man,  but  an  Indian  who  would 
know  what  was  expected  of  him.  And  the  guest 
really  did  know,  so  that  when  the  tobacco  had  been 
finally  consumed  through  repeated  turns  of  smoking 
the  pipe  was  taken  by  him  to  the  fire,  and  the  bowl 
there  emptied:  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust;  the  holy 
plant,  with  its  spirit  fled,  returning  once  again  to  the 
Earth  that  gave  it. 

When  the  time  for  talking  had  properly  come,  the 
chief  spoke,  and  afterward  waited  for  his  words  to  be 
put  into  English  by  his  nephew: 

"The  lodge  fire  is  never  so  bright  as  when  it  sees 
good  hearts.  One  of  our  friends  does  not  know, 
maybe,  that  he  has  a  name  among  us,  Snow-on-the- 
Green-Tree." 


332  Wine  o    the  Winds 

Being  so  identified,  as  one  who  is  young  and  yet 
has  gray  hair,  Doctor  North  asked  in  wonderment: 

"But  how  is  it  that  I  have  a  Dakota  name? — how, 
when  I  am  not  known  among  you?" 

For  a  long  time  the  question  remained  unanswered. 
With  knees  stretching  the  blue  robe  which  enwrapped 
the  chief  from  the  waist  down  and  gave  ease  to  his 
crossed  legs,  holding  them  comfortably  in  position, 
Spotted  Tail  sat  in  grave  immobility.  He  went  on 
looking  nowhere  but  into  the  fire. 

Now  and  again  a  rattle  of  sleet,  like  bird  shot,  came 
sharply  spurting  down  through  the  smoke-hole, 
hissing  briefly  and  spitefully  into  the  flames.  Mean 
while  the  countenance  of  the  tribal  leader,  all  lit  by 
the  glow  of  the  fire,  had  the  stillness  and  the  warmth 
of  a  face  on  a  copper  coin  brightly  new.  The 
visitors,  as  they  looked  at  him,  saw  what  others 
might  not  have  seen:  a  sorrow  poignantly  profound 
despite  the  seeming  calm  of  his  stony  repose. 

During  this  period  of  solemn  silence  the  guests 
grew  aware  that  another  young  man  had  entered  the 
tepee,  and  was  making  the  circuit  of  the  lodge, 
from  left  to  right.  Evidently  he  had  come  to  de 
posit  beside  the  tribal  dignitary  a  fringed  bag  of 
white  leather,  elaborately  decorated  with  a  bright- 
hued  embroidery  of  quills.  The  coming  and  the 
going  of  the  youth's  moccasined  feet  had  a  soundless 
tread,  precisely  as  though  he  might  have  attained 
brotherhood  with  the  cat-creatures,  the  panthers  of 
the  mountains. 

Presently  the  interpreter,  again  speaking  quietly 
and  deliberately,  began  to  repeat  what  the  chief  was 
saying  to  the  white  man: 


The  Cup  of  Kindness  333 

"You  are  known.  Some  of  our  young  men  have 
been  with  the  Cheyenne  raiders,  in  the  Valley  of 
Shallow  Waters.  There  was  one  ready  to  sing  his 
death  song.  You  went  to  him.  Though  you  were 
bleeding  and  had  an  arrow  through  your  body,  you 
went  to  him.  Though  he  shot  you  and  spat  on  you, 
there  was  still  cold  water  for  him,  that  you  gave  him 
in  kindness,  with  a  good  heart.  You  are  known. " 

This  being  gravely  asserted,  the  chief  now  turned 
his  eyes  toward  the  woman: 

"  Snow-on-the-Green-Tree  he  has  been  called. 
But  the  time  has  come,  finally,  for  him  to  have  an 
other  name.  From  where  the  moon  now  stands  he 
shall  be  known  among  us  as  Giver-of-Cold-Water. 
You  have  seen  him  who  drank.  He  came,  and  went 
out;  he  brought  what  I  have  to  show  you.  He  calls 
me  Father.  He  is  my  brother's  son." 

"What,  after  such  a  wound!"  North  exclaimed. 
"Still  living?" 

"He  lives.  He  lives  strongly.  He  sang  his 
song  answering  the  ghosts — but  he  lives." 

The  hand  of  the  young  man  went  out  impulsively, 
and  closed  upon  the  woman's;  and  the  look  in  his  face 
seemed  to  be  declaring: 

"I,  too,  was  hurt;  but  through  kindness  I  have 
lived."  Speaking  very  earnestly,  he  said:  "She 
came  to  me  at  Julesburg.  I  believe  I  should  not  be 
here  now  if  she  had  not  come  to  me." 

As  he  spoke  the  cannon  in  the  cemetery  boomed 
through  the  storm,  since  in  honour  to  the  dead  that 
piece  of  artillery  was  to  fire  a  salute,  at  half-hour 
intervals,  all  night  long.  Even  though  silence  may 
be  better  for  sad  hearts  than  noise,  this  must  be  the 


334  Wine  o9  the  Winds 

way  of  the  white  soldiers,  the  Long-Knife  people,  of 
manifesting  respect. 

The  glum  reverberations  having  grumbled  away, 
far-spreading  into  the  swish  and  sleety  rush  of  wind, 
the  chief  exhibited  something  which  he  had  taken 
from  the  bag  of  snow-white  leather.  It  was  a  round 
object  enclosed  by  a  parfleche  case,  a  relic  of  the  most 
paltry  sort:  a  dented  tin  cup.  The  tribal  leader  dis 
played  the  thing,  held  it  to  the  firelight,  turned  it 
over  and  over,  and  even  looked  at  the  young  woman, 
as  if  he  had  been  showing  her  a  treasure  very  re 
markable. 

"An  arrow  through  him,"  the  chief  affirmed,  "but 
he  did  not  hate.  Gave  water.  The  young  man  who 
shot  the  arrow  was  caught  up  by  comrades  and 
carried  safely  away.  He  has  brought  us  this,  a  holy 
cup.  It  is  the  cup  of  kindness." 

The  woman  visitor  did  not  look  into  the  chiefs 
face,  but  quite  away,  into  the  fire,  where  all  her  past 
seemed  now  to  be  rising.  She  recalled  with  what  a 
rebellious  spirit  she  had  seen  the  departure  of  her 
lover,  with  his  ox-team  and  wagon;  she  remembered 
angry  disappointments  of  bitter  days,  the  hard 
struggle,  the  fading  of  her  youth,  the  thwarted  love, 
all  the  distress  and  storm  of  her  proud  heart's  suffer 
ing. 

But  here,  in  this  smoky  lodge,  unexpectedly  and 
incredibly,  she  had  beheld  the  battered  emblem  of  a 
man's  achievement.  A  poor  thing,  a  dented  tin  cup! 
And  yet  it  humbled  her;  for  it  was  something  from 
which  a  heartsick  people  were  still  drinking  consola 
tion. 

As  she  went  on  sitting  here  in  the  stillness,  with  the 


The  Cup  of  Kindness  335 

hum  of  the  wind  through  the  tops  of  the  lodge-poles, 
and  the  scurry  of  sleet  ticking  against  them,  it  is  odd 
that  she  should  have  begun  to  feel  ineffably  at  rest 
with  the  world.  Struggle,  it  seemed  to  her,  had 
ended.  It  was  as  if  she  had  reached  finally  the  goal 
which  she  had  long  been  seeking. 

In  this  yielding  to  deep  serenity,  in  this  beneficent 
mood  of  sweetness  and  freshness,  she  could  not  but 
feel  that  the  solemn  joy  now  hers  was  something  to 
endure — the  prize  which  comes  not  to  those  who 
would  selfishly  have  it,  but  to  those  who  earn  it;  the 
reward  which  is  not  mere  happiness,  but  wisdom  of 
heart.  Yes,  it  was  that:  the  grace  of  understanding, 
the  profound  acceptance  of  the  meanness  and  the 
mightiness,  the  shadow  and  the  light,  the  pity  and 
the  glory  of  the  thing  called  Life.  Never,  in  the 
after  years,  would  she  fear  it;  for  when  abiding  love 
is  ours,  then  life  is  good,  and  all  its  paths  are  peace. 

When  she  rose  presently,  with  her  husband's  hand 
still  clasping  hers — now  that  the  time  had  come  for 
leave-taking — Alice  noted  that  the  chief  also  had 
risen.  And  when  he  began  to  speak  again,  it  was 
with  courageous  hopefulness  about  the  future  of  his 
race: 

"Birth-givers  suffer  pain,"  he  was  deliberately 
saying.  "Spring  comes,  there  has  to  be  struggle. 
'Birth',  my  daughter  always  called  it.  She  saw 
how  game  is  disappearing.  She  foresaw  that  the 
buffalo  will  vanish  away.  And  she  used  to  ask: 
'When  the  wild  herds  are  gone,  what  then?  Must 
we  get  our  living  out  of  the  earth  ?  But  how  ?  Who 
will  teach  us  ?  How  can  young  men,  who  have  always 
been  hunters,  be  brought  to  dig,  and  plant,  and  toil, 


336  Wine  o    the  Winds 

and  cut  grass?  Little  children  will  cry  with  the 
hunger-pain,  and  there  will  be  no  meat/" 

Here  the  stark  lips  of  the  chief  twitched  a  little — 
not  in  mourning  for  the  dead,  but  in  grief  for  his 
people's  sorrowing.  Soon,  however,  he  grew  calm 
again,  and  with  palms  toward  the  ground,  and  then 
raised  toward  the  sky,  that  the  blessing  of  our  Earth- 
Mother  and  of  our  Sun-Father  might  come  to  these 
two,  his  quiet  visitors,  he  stretched  forth  his  hands 
over  them  before  they  should  go  hence  into  the 
night  and  the  storm.  Then  he  began  speaking  his 
benison,  in  the  way  of  wisdom,  quietly: 

"Laughter  is  given  to  man,  and  tears.  Change 
comes.  There  is  death,  and  there  is  birth;  heat  and 
frost  must  have  their  day.  And  we,  the  children 
of  the  Earth,  have  to  keep  our  hearts  strong  lest 
we  fear  birth  and  death,  and  lose  our  way  in  the 
black  trails  of  sorrow." 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


YB  32064 


M13746 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


